The Stark Winter
by kunoichidelahoja
Summary: After the execution of Eddard Stark, his children are rounded up and banished from Westeros by the order of King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name. The Stark Children are left on their own, braving the harsh winds of winter as they wander out beyond the wall at the mercy of dangerous creatures, wilding savages and an ancient evil forgotten by man…
1. By Order of the King Baratheon

**At the request of some coworkers, I wrote this up. ****To be clear, I do not own the TV show Game of Thrones of which this fic is based on. HBO does obviously. **

**Summary - after the execution of Eddard Stark, his children are rounded up and banished from Westeros by the order of King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name. The Stark Children are left on their own, braving the harsh winds of winter as they wander out beyond the wall at the mercy of dangerous creatures, wilding savages and an ancient evil forgotten by man…**

* * *

Jon felt numb when hearing the news of his father's execution. He felt all the worse when Alliser Thorne was the one who told him, smirk etched on his old, hideous face. The cretin was waiting for Jon to burst with grief, rage or some emotion in between, baiting him for an outburst that would require severe punishment. However, _Lord Snow_ wouldn't dare give him the satisfaction. It was probably foolish of him, but Jon felt responsible for the death of his father. Perhaps if he hadn't fled North, circumstances would be different. Sam, Edd and some others gave their condolences, of which he was appreciative. Yet, nothing worked to lessen the hole Jon felt within his soul. He lived his life so far without knowing a mother's love. Now he was subject to live the rest of his days without his father too.

He heard that Robb called the Northern banners to march south to King's Landing. Jon mentally made plans to make preparations in the evening. He may have failed his father, but he would not fail his brother, bastard be damned.

Just then, there was a commotion outside in the courtyard. Jon went out to see what was going on. When he stepped out, the stinging cold of the North was nothing compared to the sharp chill that went through his spine at the sight before him. There were knights and soldiers, most of them wearing Lannister red, Frey green and others who seemed to be sellswords. At the front of the company, were five young children.

It was the Stark children. Robb the eldest, heir (now actually Lord) of Winterfell, Sansa, the eldest daughter, Arya, the youngest daughter, Bran, the middle son, and Rickon, the smallest and youngest of the Stark pups. All five children seemed beaten, tired and terrified for their lives. The look of terror upon Arya's face was enough to make Jon's heart drop.

"What is the meaning of this?" spoke the deep voice of Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's watch. Jon felt a twinge of relief. Mayhaps Lord Commander Mormont could fix this; maybe he could save them.

"By order of King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, Lord of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Protector of the realm, the children of the traitor Eddard Stark of Winterfell are to be banished from the land of Westeros. They are to be cast out beyond the Wall to freeze for the rest of their days and their bodies long after that," said Janos Slynt, Lord Commander of the royal Kingsguard.

"_King_ Joffrey?" said Mormont incredulously.

"Did you not receive word of the former king's passing?" asked Slynt in brash fashion

"Yes, but-"

"And did you not receive the news that his son was to inherit the throne and be crowned the new ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?" asked the arrogant knight in the same rude manner.

"Yes," Jeor said once more through gritted teeth.

"Then I do not understand the confusion. Now, open the gates and let us throw away these traitorous spawns out to the wild where they belong." demanded the terrible knight.

Jeor Mormont stood tall, saying nothing for some moments. Jon could hear nothing else other than his pulse beating furiously underneath his skin. His attention, as well as everyone else's diverted to the 997th Commander of the Night's Watch as he pondered over his decision.

Mormont sighed, then nodded and said, "Proceed."

Jon's eyes widened in horror, as did that of his half-siblings. All five struggled to break free in vain, as the men who brought them to Castle Black cheered in victory at the Starks' demise.

"What?" spoke Sansa, in evident distress, "But we're innocent we didn't do anything-" the redheaded girl was made to be silent with a quick punch to the face. Her body fell to the floor, and blood spilling from her nose touched the fresh snow on the ground. Robb was enraged, as were the other Starks, yet they struggled in vain, for still were they captives, beaten and tired. Jon looked to his Lord Commander, as did all.

"Jeor Mormont," spoke Robb desperately, "Surely you see this is folly, that this is unjust. Do what you want with me, but spare my younger siblings, they are of no threat to anyone-"

Janos struck him across the face, "Quiet filth, the fate of that of you and your kin has been decided. Enough of your treachery."

Robb said nothing, but a fire burned in his eyes. He feared not for himself but for what future punishment may befall his siblings as a result of his actions.

"I am sorry young lord," apologized the Mormant commander, "I wish I could help you. I wish things were different. But I cannot jeopardize the welfare of my men for your sake or that of your sisters and brothers. We are the shield that guards the realms of men." He quoted solemnly.

"Yes, they serve the realm, and in turn, they serve the king. The king's enemies are the realm's enemies, and as such, the Stark children are to be dealt with according to the king's demands."

said Janos Slynt, smug and savagely.

Jon wanted to speak, wanted to fight, but what could he achieve? There were others in the crowd, who gritted their teeth and turned away, no longer wish to look at the tragedy and injustice displayed before them. Nothing good could come of it. But, Robb and the others, they were his family. He cannot sit idly by while they were treated so inhumanely. He went to sneak by the armory and get a sword when another voice spoke.

"Wait," Alliser Thorne walked over beside Jeor Mormont, arm outstretched in a motion to halt the soldiers who were dragging the Stark children.

"Alliser," Jeor said in shock.

Could it be? Did Jon misjudge the bitter man? Would Thorne speak in defense of his family?

"There is one other. The bastard Jon Snow, he is here among the Night's Watch."

Ice truly lived in Jon Snow's veins for his blood froze at the moment his name uttered. His breath still and his mind thought a thousand thoughts. Should he run, hide or fight? Should he boldly declare his name? Challenge the soldiers to battle? Make a mad dash for his family?

"Is that so?" asked Janos Slynt, for once in a tone of surprise and suspicion and not arrogance.

"Jon Snow is a sworn brother of the Night's Watch," stated Jeor Mormont, "and thus has no ties to his family. Furthermore, he is a bastard, who never had claims to any lands or titles, to begin with. He is nothing to you or the king," the Lord Commander said fiercely.

"With all due respect Lord Commander Mormont," said a deep, sinister voice, "Jon Snow can always be legitimized by enemies of the crown, who we will be hunting & dealing with as soon as we've finished here."

"Lord Bolton," Mormont said darkly.

"Besides, he is his father's son," Roose Bolton said with finality. "And thus, he can never be trusted."

"Now, let us deal with the Stark menace once and for all," Janos Slynt said, nodding to another man among the soldiers who came forward.

"Alright, bastard," spat out none other than Black Walder. "You got until the count of five to come out and reveal yerself. If you don't coward, as ye are, we'll fuck the shit out of your sisters and kill the shit out of your brothers here and now." Sansa and Arya were, in turn, bent over and daggers were brandished out to the throats of Robb, Bran, and Rickon.

"One." The Stark boys began to bleed at the throat, and the sisters' clothes were being torn.

"Two-"

"WAIT!" Jon found himself belting out. It wasn't even a choice. He couldn't hide any longer. He may be a fool, but he'd rather be that than a coward who lets his kin suffer such violence. Slowly, his own body against him, Jon dragged his feet to reveal to all in the crowd, walking past Thorne and Mormont, his friends and the rest of the Night's Watch. He stopped mere feet away from his family, all of whom were forced onto their knees. Now that he was closer, Jon had a clearer display of the state his siblings were in. Robb had bruises coloring his skin, from his face, his neck and spots that were revealed from his torn clothing. Sansa's nose appeared broken, freshest upon the rest of the wounds upon her body. Arya, fierce thing she was, was bleeding from the head, a large gash upon her forehead. Bran and Rickon did not seem to be in better condition.

"Is that him?" Janos asked Alliser Thorne.

"Aye, that be him," confirmed the Thorne in Jon's existence.

"No!" yelled Robb. "He's lying! That isn't him." Sansa had a look of realization hit her face.

"Yes, we've never seen this boy before in our lives," Sansa said, trying her best to remain composed given her current position.

"He-he isn't one of us," piped up Bran, Rickon, in turn, nodded to his brother's statement.

Arya was the last to renounce him, even if it meant trying to save her half-brother's life. She did it for that small chance alone. "This man is not our brother," she said weakly as if it killed her to say it.

Jon felt stabbed in the heart by the words of his family but touched by them all the same. They were trying to save their bastard brother, even now, captives at the evil King Joffrey's command. The Stark children could not protect themselves, but they could save their brother Jon Snow. It made him cry, right there before all the men and gods to witness.

"So some are saying that he is and some are saying that he isn't," said (insert Frey name again). "The fuck am I supposed to do?"

"To be honest, I've never laid eyes on the bastard myself," said Roose Bolton, forming a thin line of his already thin lips.

"Alright, how's this," said Ryger Rivers, "you," he spoke to Jon, "are you or are you not Jon Snow?" The knives were held at the throats of his brothers, and now his sisters as well.

Swallowing, Jon Snow uttered the words that sealed his fate, looking into the blue eyes of Robb as he did so. "Yes, I am Jon Snow," he said quietly.

"Speak up boy!"

"I'm him; I'm Jon Snow!" exclaimed Jon. He wanted to demand the release of his siblings from the evil men and their weapons, but he wasn't anyone to request anything. Just a lowly bastard, who wasn't even fit to defend his kin.

"Get over here boy!" spoke Janos Slynt, yanking Jon over to his family. All five Stark children were saddened, and Jon was equally sad for them.

"Thank you," spoke Janos to Thorne. "The crown will not forget this."

"Nor will I," said Jeor Mormont, looking pointedly as his fellow Night's Watchmen.

Jon could spot the friends he made during his time at the Wall. Sam hid his face, crying like a child. Edd was fuming, undoubtedly cursing everyone and everything inwardly. Grenn and Pyp would not dare to look at him, staring firmly at the snow-covered ground before them.

"Enough delay has befallen us. Lord Commander Mormont, we have a long journey back, and we'd like to return as soon as possible, so if you please," said Lord Bolton, apparently bored of the commotion.

"Come now, Lord Commander," said Janos Slynt. "Don't defy your King."

"Don't defy the realms of men," said Bolton mockingly.

"Let's get on with it!" yelled Rivers.

Jeor Mormont inhaled deeply, looking upon Jon Snow with eyes full of grief. The Lord Commander already lost one son, now he loses another so soon. "OPEN THE GATE!" He yelled at the gatekeepers further back. They fumbled to open the Great Gates of the Wall.

"One more moment," said Alliser Thorne. He walked forward to Jon Snow and promptly grabbed Jon's right arm and applied significant pressure on his good arm. There was a snap, and Jon yelped.

"Jon!" exclaimed his siblings in outrage and concern.

"Just in case he wanted to try something foolish."

"Alliser you-" sputtered Mormont.

"Let's go, lads, it is high time we dispose of this garbage," Janos said, leading the men to the gates and the Starks to their doom.

"You won't get away with this," Bran said.

"Oh I imagine we already have," spoke Roose Bolton in his smooth voice. "The second your father's head was removed from his miserable shoulders."

"Any of your traitors think of running back here, you'll be shot down and killed," said Ryger Rivers. "Or hung."

"Or worse," added his brother, Black Walder, smiling devilishly at the Stark girls.

"You lack all honor," scolded Sansa forcefully.

"Yes," admitted Lord Bolton. "And that's why we're still here, alive and thriving. And that is why you are all going to die. You Starks and your foolish honor. It is a wonder how your House has managed to live this long. But no longer. Now, winter has come for House Stark. It's why he did it, you know. King Joffrey thought it would be an entertaining story to tell." He said with a smirk upon his wretched lips.

"Yes our king is a clever one," said Janos, if only to be known to further adulate the current monarch of the Seven Kingdoms.

A sharp gust of wind blew in from beyond the gates, slapping the Starks with the cold temperatures of the wild North.

"Strip them of their cloaks," commanded Lord Bolton. At once were the last protective layers of warm forcibly removed from the bodies of the Stark children. Then all six were pushed, barbarically forced out into the land Beyond the Wall.

"Any last words, remaining members of House Stark?" asked Roose Bolton amusedly.

"We'll kill you if it is the last thing we do!" bellowed Arya ever ferocious, in spite of the winds at her back. The gates were shut quickly, and the blow-back hit the Starks as hard as the winds ahead. The gates were shut quickly, and the blowback hit the Starks as hard as the winds ahead. Thus the Stark children were shut out of the world they thought they knew, and thrust into one they've never understood. Another harsh wind came upon them. They shivered, for now, they began to feel the cold.

"Fuck, it's cold," said Robb, shivering all over.

"Come," Jon said, "It is dangerous in the day but even worse in the night. We cannot linger." At all once came the sounds of the wild, howls from all sorts of creatures. Jon led the Starks away, to make their way in a desperate attempt to find a haven from the winds of winter.

* * *

"You shouldn't have done that," said Tyrion of House Lannister, wine goblet in hand. "You made an enemy out of the North."

"The traitor Stark was plotting against me!" spat out Joffrey, supposed King of the Seven Kingdoms. "Hell will freeze over before I gave him the chance to overthrow me!"

"And his children? Sansa was your betrothed! How do you justify that?" questioned the Imp.

"I do not need to justify anything. I AM THE KING!" yelled said King manically. "The Stark filth were not to be trusted any of them."

"What do you have to say of this?" Tyrion turned to his sister, Queen Regent Cersei of House Lannister; she was staring out the window. From her position, she could observe crows picking at the heads on pikes Joffrey had commanded be done. The head her eyes remained fixed upon was that of Eddard Stark. His eyes were already gone, whether they fell out or a crow ate it she did not know, nor did she care.

She turned to her brother and her son and simply said, "Anyone who isn't us, is an enemy." She stood up, armed with a goblet herself, walked around, placing herself between Joffrey and Tyrion. "What right have we to question our King? His word is law; his cause is just."

"Just? What dribble!" exclaimed Tyrion. "What is just about sending innocent children to their deaths?"

"So they can raise an army against us in revenge for their father's death?" argued Cersei.

"You've been talking around in circles about this for the past hour," said Jaime the golden lion, Kingsguard. "What's done is done. Ned Stark is dead, and cannot be brought back."

"Well who has Winterfell now?" asked the Imp.

"I made the Boltons lords of Winterfell," said Joffrey.

"Ha! The Northerners despise the Boltons," said Tyrion.

"And now they have to answer to them," spoke His Grace. "For when I called, they were the only ones of the North who answered."

"It was the right thing to do," agreed Cersei, reaching to touch her son. Joffrey flinched away from his mother, uneager to receive her affection.

"Of course," Joffrey said rudely. "I thought of it."

Cersei tried to remain composed though it stung to be treated in such a manner by her child. Jaime and Tyrion made no mention of the moment.

"The North will never forget this." said the Imp gravely.

"Good, let them remember what happens when they come South," spoke the commanding voice of the Great Lion, Tywin of House Lannister. All three of his children, stiffened and straightened their backs as the Lord of Casterly Rock entered the room. Even Joffrey made sure to be on his best behavior in his grandfather's presence. King he maybe, but even a King could not escape the wrath of Tywin Lannister.

"Father," Tyrion uttered, beside himself. He always hated being caught off guard, and his father still managed the job of doing so. The Great Lion neglected to acknowledge his youngest's existence.

"Grandfather," said Joffrey, "thanking for arriving so quickly."

"Of course, I go where I am sorely needed." Now he chooses to look at Tyrion for the failure he was, as a drunkard, a whoremonger and worst of all a dwarf. He also looked upon his daughter Cersei, eyes piercing enough to stab the Queen right through.

"Now what is this I hear of the Stark children being banished?" quested Tywin of his grandson.

"I-" sputtered Joffrey, "I sent them beyond the Wall -"

"That was incredibly foolish," reprimanded Lord Tywin. "All you needed to do was kill the sons and keep the girls alive. We could have married them off to secure the North." He fumed and then breathed. "But no matter. Lord Bolton has submitted papers for his son Ramsay to be legitimized, we will sign them, and once the bastard becomes Ramsay Bolton, we will marry her off to him-"

"You will do no such thing!" boomed Cersei, Queen Mother. "You will not pawn her off as you did me; I'll not have it."

Tywin turned fully to look at his daughter. He walked up to her and struck her hard enough. She fell to the floor. Joffrey, Jaime, and Tyrion flinched, yet not one intervened. "You are my daughter," growled the Great Lion of the West, "and you _will_ do as I command, as will Myrcella because it is in the best interest of our House."

Lord Tywin then turned to his grandson and said, "You will bestow me the great honor of being Your Hand, you will do so in a ceremony so many can bear witness."

Joffrey didn't know what else to do other than agree. He nodded, "Yes," he said.

Tywin looked upon his first-born son and his Imp of a disappointment. "My children," he said bitterly and stalked out of the room.

_Some days later…_

They'd been walking for days, the six of them. The cold North was unforgiving, unrelenting. It did not care who the Stark children were or whether they deserved what they got. The winds kept blowing and pushing. The animals they came across most often were large and eager to eat them. With no means to defend themselves. All they could do was flee. None of them bothered to count the days, as they bled together now. What was worse than the cold, was the hunger that bore in their stomach. The emptiness of their bellies was excruciating. The first two days had been bountiful, Robb was able to catch one rabbit, no simple feat without proper tools. Sansa in the meantime fashioned a makeshift sling for Jon, whose arm was not faring any better since Alliser Thorne broke it.

Arya, Bran, and Rickon were tough little ones, but they were still children. Children freezing in the harsh environment of the North, beyond the Wall. T'was no place for a child, let alone three that were to be raised in a castle until grown. They were worse off than the eldest Starks, and it scared Robb, Jon, and Sansa more than any beast or wilding. The farther the children went, the scarcer the options were for sustenance. Time was not on their side; something had to be done. That's when Rickon noticed it.

"Food," he said weakly. The word stopped all of them in the tracks. Sure enough, out some yards in the distance was a camp that seemed abandoned with roasted meat lain aside by a campfire that was put out some time ago.

"No," Jon shook his head, "It's too easy. It's probably a trap." He warned his siblings.

"By who?" asked Bran, who licked his dry lips at the sight of fresh meat ripe for the taking.

"Wildings," said Jon. He was surprised they encountered none so far. Then again, he knew that most of them were going south.

"The wildings I've met are fleeing south," said Robb. "What frightens wildings I wonder?"

"Something evil," Jon said, referring to the night where two former Night's watchmen rose from the dead, undead and undead. Robb regarded the words his brother spoke, his brows furrowed trying to make sense.

"Arya!" Sansa hissed, as her little sister went forth get the meat. Robb went after her to stop her, motioning the others to stay back. Sansa, Bran, Rickon, and Jon held each other close, with bated breath. Arya was a quick one and got to the meat quietly snatching it from the ground. Robb cautiously surveyed the surroundings. Sure enough, it seemed no one was around. Perhaps it was luck.

An arrow whizzed past Robb, grazing his cheek.

They should have known better.

The Stark children ran, and not far behind were Thenns, chasing them down as predators do their prey. The snow and ice didn't make it easy for them, but the children ran all the same. The men were loud and intimidating, grunting and yelling, shooting their arrows and throwing their spears. Unbeknownst to the Starks, however, was that even more Thenns were waiting around, to encircle them in their grasp. They were caught, like rats in a trap.

Thenns were even more hideous than described. Faces scarred, seemingly by choice, Teeth yellow and black, stained with blood, bits of skin stuck in between the teeth and wedged in their dirty fingernails. Once more the Stark children found themselves on their knees, as the savages cheered at their victorious capture. One of them tried to lick Robb's cheek that oozed with fresh blood. The eldest Stark deemed to retaliate with a headbutt, which hurt him as much as it did the Thenn. Before the altercation continued, another person entered the area. A senior woman came forth, great staff in tow, and began to debate with the men. They all communicated in a language the Starks could not understand. Jon realized that it must have been the Old Tongue he heard about.

The old woman kept gesturing to the children, waving her hands frantically, trying to make some point. The men seemed to be very displeased, but eventually, all nodded in agreement in what was to be done. They grabbed the children, making them stand and dragging them off.

The group ended up venturing into a frozen plateau. The winds settled for a time, and there stood six huge and very long wooden poles. The Thenns brought forth rope to bind the children to the poles. Naturally, the children tried to fight, but the cold was taking its toll upon their weakened bodies.

The Starks were bound in a short time, facing towards the vast expanse of the North beyond the Wall. It seemed to be a never-ending frozen wasteland, nothing to see but snow and ice covering the lands for what seemed leagues. The old woman began to yell at it all, making all kinds of gestures with her staff. She chanted something in the Old Tongue. Jon tried making sense of it, but the words were to foreign for his understanding. What was clear though was that she was talking to someone, or rather something. The older woman began circling the captive Starks, now chanting and the Thenns joined her.

While the wildings were chanting, Arya was working on getting herself free. She hid a jagged piece of rock among her rags of clothing. Luckily enough, the men were far too dull to notice what the youngest Stark girl snuck upon her person. She began to cut away at her ropes. Just then, a strange roar came from the distance. Clouds started to roll in forward onto the area, which made the savages stop their talking. Whatever they were trying to summon had finally arrived, which they took as their cue to flee. They left the Starks for dead. That is when Arya went for it. She moved as fast as she could with the limited movement she had to work with. At last after some time she was free and fell to the snow.

A gale began to fall upon the hapless Starks of Winterfell, and the clouds that initially seemed far away now came to swallow them whole. Visibility was a challenge but the least of their worries. The cold, the cold was the worst of it. Arya screamed from it as if a thousand knives were stabbing her simultaneously.

"Arya!" screamed Sansa.

"Sansa," yelled Robb.

"Bran," bellowed Jon.

"Rickon," cried Bran.

Arya made her way through the deep snow; she was closest to Sansa, who was already wriggling her way to freedom. Then she made her way to Robb. The moment Robb was freed he carried her over to Bran, then Jon and finally Rickon. All released, the Stark children made a mad dash as fast as they could, blindly hoping beyond hope to make it out of this sudden storm.

The lot of them tumbled and fell together as they held hands and all six refused to let go of one another. It was one thing to suffer such a thing as freezing to death in a cold and stark land. It was another matter entirely to suffer it alone.

Robb was the one to spot it. "Cave!" was the word he managed to say. He dragged his siblings through and made it to the cavern, which was their saving grace. Behind them, out in the storm, an inhuman shriek was heard. It made them run faster into the empty cave. All the children collapsed into the cavern, breathless from the energy they spent.

"Damn it son of a whore!" Exclaimed Arya, once she regained her breath. Her brothers and sister turned to look at her.

"I lost the fucking meat!" she swore, abandoning all propriety. Then again, she never had much, to begin with.

"There are worse things," Robb said.

"Oh what like starving to death you mean?" said Sansa crossly. "Oh freezing to death? I'd say we're getting there already."

"Are you- are you blaming me for this?" asked Robb, taken aback.

"If you had been more clever, we could have avoided this," Sansa barked.

"Oi, you haven't done anything either," said Arya defensively.

"It's just like you to contradict everything I say -"

"Eat my arm!" said Jon loudly. It garnered the attention he wanted, preventing his sisters from having a row.

"Eat my arm," he said more calmly, removing the sling and revealing his damaged limb. "There no way the arm can heal, not anymore, so might as well put it to use in the only way possible now."

All five of his siblings simply stared at their half-brother, as if Jon had gone made. "No," spoke Arya.

"It doesn't matter," said Sansa. "There's nothing to hunt, that hasn't been already by those savages. The ground is frozen; the trees are frozen; everything is frozen! We've nowhere to go," she said despondently. She seemed to have aged a hundred years at the moment.

"Sansa's right," Bran said, looking over the cave. "This place will be our tomb," he said gravely.

It was the thought that lingered upon their minds as soon as Bran said it. The cold came through the opening of the cavern, which made the children shiver once more. It prompted them to huddle together, in an attempt to stay warm. At this point, each Stark was bony, haggardly and chilling to the other.

There they stayed for more days and nights as the lights moved and changed over the hours. No conversation was to be had, for what could have been said? Death was upon them; nothing more could be said than that.

Little Rickon however, had questions to ask, now that he thought about it.

"Is this all there is?" he asked his older siblings. "Is there nothing after we die?" All five elder siblings looked upon their youngest. Rickon had such a quick life, cut short by injustice and cruelty. His wide eyes were brimming with tears, fear, and innocence. Robb did not know what to say to his baby brother, yet he would not lie to him.

"I don't know little one," Robb said quietly. "But if possible, I'd make one for you, where we could play forever, and we would never leave our home, where we could have all the treats we want and care for our wolves and be safe for all time."

Rickon may have been a young child of merely eight, but he appreciated the words his eldest brother spoke. The little one nodded, accepting Robb's answer. He fell back in Sansa's embrace. Sansa gripped the hand of her eldest brother, and they exchanged a look of fear between their equally blue eyes. Robb's words were sweet but what if there was nothing beyond this accursed life. They would never see their parents again; they would never see anything again, not even each other.

How could the gods be so cruel?

Baby Rickon was the first to go. Bran and Arya tried to wake him but to no avail. Rickon Stark was frozen stiff as a rock; soul departed to wherever the dead go, as the rest of the Starks would soon discover. They knew it was coming, but to experience it was soul-shattering. There was no hope now; there was nothing but despair.

"It's not fair," Bran said. The boy was never one to get angry. Annoyed yes, mostly at his elder sister Arya. But never once did the boy feel rage. But at the loss of his brother Rickon, did he feel fury. It was the first in days where he actually felt something in his dying body. "It's not FAIR!" he screamed, the echo in the cave repeated his cry. "Rickon was a child, just like all of us. We didn't do anything wrong. We didn't, we were good children." Bran cried, as did his older siblings with him, except for Arya. Her grey eyes were cloudy with detachment.

"They're gonna get away with it," Arya said. "They're gonna get away with all of it. That's what gets me. They are selfish and cruel, we were good and kind, and they get to live, and we have to die. And they get away with it."

Those were her last words, for she and Bran died together, more or less at the same time, frozen as Rickon. Sansa cries for her dead sister and brother. She wonders when the tears will cease. It feels as if she has been crying all her life. There was a part of her that resented her little sister for her rebellious ways, her yearning of adventure and now she could think of nothing else but all the time she wasting bickering with her — what a waste of time, what a waste of life.

"We failed," Sansa said, her voice was strange, gravely, almost like a ghost. "We failed our house, we failed ourselves," she bowed her head as her energy dissipated. "We failed each other."

Sansa Stark breathed her last breath laboriously, racked with regret. And thus were the two brothers, Robb Stark, eldest and first born and Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell. It could have been the lack of nourishment, but the cut in Robb's cheek never did heal properly. Jon's arm, due to lack of medical aid, remained broken. Funny enough, however, the fractured appendage didn't seem to bother Jon anymore.

"I can't believe it's going to end this way," said Robb solemnly. He and Jon looked upon their now dead siblings. "She was wrong. We didn't fail House Stark, I did."

"Robb," uttered Jon.

"It's true," wept Robb weakly. "I should have been more clever, sunken to their level. Perhaps if I did, we'd all be fine. But no I had to be honorable. Where did honor get us? Dead! That's where."

"Don't do that," Jon said. "You did all you could do, all anyone decent could."

"It wasn't enough," Robb said.

"No," Jon agreed, with sorrow. A deathly silence hung over them.

"Do you remember the day we taught Rickon how to swim?" asked Robb. His voice was starting to change, as Sansa's had.

Jon did his best to nod, yet his head was so very heavy all of a sudden. "Aye," he said weakly.

"Warmest day in the North. Rickon was so fearless that day," recalled Robb.

"That was because he knew that he had his older siblings with him," spoke Jon as they stared upon Rickon's frozen corpse. "He knew that if anything went wrong, we'd be there to protect him." Tears well up in his dark eyes.

"We must have been there for hours. Sansa was there too, beautiful as she was," said Robb, eyes so very far away, into happier days long past.

"We threw her into the water," Jon said, but could not bring himself to chuckle at the memory.

"She was livid."

"Yet she stayed, and decided to be a child instead of a lady for once."

"Arya and Bran were little hellraisers that day too," smiled Robb sadly.

"We ended up going back into your quarters and fell asleep there, all six of us on your featherbed."

"Father went mad looking for us, assuming the worst no doubt."

"But then he found us, all curled up together." As they were now, most of them corpses instead of sleeping children.

"Aye together."

Jon woke with a start. His eyelids felt so heavy. His head felt heavy but also light, as he felt removed from the rest of his body, which seemed not to be responsive at all. For a moment, he forgot where he was. It was a moment of bliss until his eyes fell upon the corpses of Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Sansa was too his left, in between himself and Robb. He found it so very hard to breathe as if a boulder were upon his chest. He wheezed to breathe, as he had when he was younger afflicted with smallpox.

"Robb," he croaked out. He didn't sound like himself. "Robb," he tried again, louder but it hurt his dry throat. He wanted to reach out and touch his brother, but his damn arms would not move. Robb did not hear his cry. That was when the panic seeped in.

"Robb, Robb, Robb" he kept calling. Robb sat still.

So very still.

Nononononononononononononono

"Robb," Jon sobbed. "Robb" with the little strength he had left, he pushed with his weight to the left. Sansa, whose body, in turn, pushed Robb, who fell on his side to the cold floor of the cave.

Robb Stark was now a corpse, along with the last of the Starks. House Stark has ended, in this cave, their tomb. All that was left was the lowly bastard, Jon Snow.

All of it rushed through him, the rage, the despair, the regret. Every negative emotion he ever felt in his life burst like a waterfall as he screamed a heart wrenching, loud and terrible scream. Over and over he screamed, deep from within his gut, from within his soul. It would be the last thing he ever did, scream into the cold void of the frozen North where dead men told no tales.

But what Jon Snow did not account for was for someone to hear him screaming.

Nay, not someone. Something.

He heard it walk through into the cave and it made him stop screaming. He breathed out, his air coming out in visible wisps. What he spotted before him was seemingly a form of a man. As the stranger got closer, it was clear that this was no man. Mayhaps once in an age forgotten by man, but not, this being had skin so cold it resembled ice itself. Where hair may have once been was replaced by sharp curved spikes. Spikes which could be compared to a crown. Nails had been grown into black claws and the armor the thing wore was thin and surely did nothing to shield it from the cold. That is, if the cold even bothered him, which it did not seem too. If anything, the creature appeared to represent the very personification of cold.

This ominous being came to a stop just inches before Jon Snow's seated body. It made the thing tower of him, which made him all the more terrifying. He looked upon the corpses of Jon's dead family, fixated. Jon did his best to look at what the being's cold blue eyes were looking at. Stripped down as they were, the Stark children's clothes have one thing in common. The dire wolf sigil was stitched upon them. Jon looked at this being, as the creature looked down at him. What Jon bore witness to next was something he wished he had never seen. Something that robbed him of the ability to scream from sheer fear alone.

The creature smiled. And that smile turned into a grin, wide and fearsome. His ice blue eyes had come alive, and they wanted Jon. The being's blue hand grabbed Jon by the neck as Jon struggled to breathe, unable to look away from this monster. He felt his neck snap, and then he felt no more.

The bodies of the six children were dragged away from the cave, out into the cold, unforgiving North where the lands could not harm them any longer.

The creature that killed Jon Snow led a group of similar looking monsters, which were known as White Walkers. The Walkers carried the children, while their leader, the Night King, led them to their home. The Land of Always Winter.

Upon this ancient and uncharted land lay one structure. It was a structure built eons ago and untouched by man for equally as long. The Stark corpses would be the first in millennia to come into contact with it. In the center of this structure lay a pool of dark water, which is where the children were lain into. They were inserted into a shape that bore a resemblance to a circle. Their bodies sank into the depths, unseen. The Night King dipped only one finger into the water, and the entirety of it froze, sealing the Starks in.

The children of Eddard Stark were no more, for now, they were the children of the Night King. Children of winter, and soon winter was coming for Westeros.

Out in the city of King's Landing, storm clouds brewed over the city. No one paid any mind to it. However, it was not rain that fell from the sky. It was little specks of snow.


	2. The Winds of Winter

**Chapter 2 already, ****I'm on a roll! So many views and I got some reviews; I thank you for your feedback. Here ya have it, enjoy! **

* * *

In the Land of Always Winter, the structure stood and the frozen pool with it. All was still and quiet, for no life was in it. What could, after all, withstand such stark circumstances?

A crack was made, which led to three more and ten more after that. Before long, the iced surface of the pool was broken. Six heads rose above the depths, with glaring, icy blue eyes gazing ahead. Smoothly, they rose from the water, and steadfast the six stood as droplets rolled off their skin. A seventh figure approached them, spikes coming out of his head, his eyes the same as theirs. The Night King stared upon his new creations. Though undead they did not rot, and while superior to the decomposing masses, they were not Walkers. They were a different breed.

They were the Starks.

* * *

The North, for the most part, was saddened and outraged at the injustice put upon the Starks of Winterfell. They felt the worst for the children, who were cast away and left to die in the savage lands beyond the Wall. The Northerners refused to forget, as they always reminded the Boltons that they were not welcome. The servants of Winterfell initially rebelled against their new lords, spitting at their feet, calling them traitors, villains and such.

Ramsay made short work of them. Hodor, the gentle giant, was fed to the hounds. Maester Luwin was flayed. Ser Rodrik put up a good fight, brave as he was, but struck down by the Bolton men. In turn, the noble knight was flayed as well, placed next to the rotting maester. One by one, the most loyal servants to the Starks fell. Northerners, stubborn as they may be, were taught a cruel lesson by the invaders of Winterfell. The dead cannot help the living. Loyalty to the dead was as useful as suicide.

Still, the majority of the Northern houses rebelled against House Bolton and the crown, declaring themselves an independent nation apart from the other kingdoms. With armies they marched to Winterfell, ready to avenge their former liege lords and win their freedom from such evil tyranny.

They were ready on the battlefield, surrounded and armed — the Northerners on their side, both the northern and southern parts of the North region of Westeros. The Bolton had their men, with some support from the Lannisters and some Freys. Battle lines were drawn; the war was about to begin.

But it was not the war they were anticipating.

As the men were about to charge, the clouds above darkened to a dark grey and a gale of stinging wind came barreling. It was the harbinger of a bad storm which concealed the one who brought it. The surroundings were barely able to be seen as the snow came tumbling down. All that could be heard was snarling.

And screaming.

Soldiers were running from something their commanders could yet see. Some were wounded already, by what they did not know. The snarling got louder and more menacing. The horses panicked, neighing and moving wildly. The animals yearned to flee from the unknown. They were the wise ones.

Mere feet away, it was only then that they were revealed. Dead men with eyes so blue it froze you to the core from fear. They charged forward without hesitation, going for the kill. To this dead army, no side mattered. Good or evil, just or cruel, the dead came for all. Many warriors were brave, fighting till their last breath, but even more were terrified. The masses of men on the battlefield that chose to run were ultimately mauled by the relentless army of the dead unleashed upon them. Out in the hills overlooking the lands of Winterfell, stood a dozen, with six mounted on their horses, alongside their icy leader. Six more stood tall on their legs, quiet as they bore witness to the massacre on the battlefield, unflinching. Within the hour, the battlefield just outside Winterfell became silent once more, for the grounds became littered with torn limbs and mutilated corpses. The undead marched on, as commanded by their icy leader and his lieutenants who witnessed the carnage with complete indifference.

Further North, the place where the former construct known as the Wall was as silent as a mouse. No warning was made for the men in black, just the sound of a horn. Few were able to flee, Samwell Tarly was one of the few. He took one wildling girl with him, baby in tow. The Lord Commander Mormont fell, as did Grenn, Pyp, Alliser Thorne and countless others. The shield that guarded the realms of men was shattered in pieces, as was the seven hundred foot tall structure.

And so it went as the Army of the Dead marched on, making their way south, tearing their way through various noble houses and villages. Survivors who dared to warn others of their impending doomed were ignored, laughed at as mad fools, for no one believed. No one entertained the possibility that their petty squabbles were for naught. Moat Cailin reduced to ruin, the Inn at the Crossroads, Brindlewood, Greywater Watch, and Darry. All fallen, all dead.

* * *

They came in the night, the moon full and clouds passing before it. All the candles were lit in the city of King's Landing. It was as calm a night as any other in the pit of snakes. It was nearly a deceptive calm, as some of the notorious citizens of the city. The guards patrolled the outer walls. They all heard the reports of what supposedly happened up North along the Kingsroad but what did it matter? All sorts of stories were told about the regions of Westeros. Most of them were tales as tall as the trees. As the attention of the guards was so focused upon the roads, the people and areas in, out and surrounding the city, none of them paid mind to the clouds above. No one noticed the nebula expanding and the cover of the night did no one any favors.

The wind began to blow into the city, ad a chill started to seep throughout the streets of King's Landing. People thought it strange sure, but no one was alarmed yet. Beyond the gates of the city where the darkness shielded, snarling was heard. Out in the distance, men began to run. A few dozen came sprinting to the shut gates, screaming to be let in. The sheer desperation in the eyes of each man heaving from exhaustion and fear caused some trepidation within the guards themselves. However, they had their orders. They were not to open the gates, especially for some mere peasants. Finally, the snarling could be heard by the Lannister guards as well. The peasants began to climb the walls in a vain effort to find safety from the unknown threat behind. The guards threatened to shoot. A couple said to kill, for they'd rather die than to face what was coming. More said they did not want to die, for what was to come would ensure death to be an eternal hell. Many guards dismissed the words of the peasant folk, but some were puzzled over their words. But the time to deliberate was over.

Winter was coming.

The guards saw it, and most of them were stupefied, giving the dead some seconds of a head start to advance. Eventually, they composed themselves and did what they were trained to do. Fight the enemy regardless of the circumstances. Tywin Lannister would not expect any less of the men who fought in his House's name. The people who lived and were the closest to the walls began to hear some commotion. They saw more guards running towards the gates. It got serious when the battle horns were blown. The citizens did not know who was coming to attack, but some of the more intelligent ones believed it was some enemy of the North. They weren't wrong, but they assumed it was some House of the living. After all, no one accounted for the ability of the dead to rise.

As efficient as the Lannister men were, they were only men. Men got tired, men got hurt and bled and slowed down. Men got distracted, and distractions, as well as spent energy and weakness, got them killed. Before long the peasants were eradicated and the dead start to pound on the gates as the men on the walls. Then, the masses of corpses began to change tactics. They began to run on top of one another. At first, the soldiers were bewildered, until the tower made of rotting bodies began to rise higher and higher, scaling the walls and nearing entry into the safety of the city, where people were mere sitting ducks waiting to get slaughtered.

The guards were already running low on arrows and the fear of death beginning to get to them. No matter where the arrows hit, the dead ones would not stop. Finally, they reached the top of the walls, and dashed madly everywhere they could reach. Swords and spears made little difference; shields only delayed the inevitable. At last, one soldier disarmed, and frantically grabbed for the nearest object in a last-ditch effort to defend himself. It happened to be a torch, which managed to bring the deranged creature before him to fall. Fire, he screamed in hopes that others would hear. Flame can bring them down. To his satisfaction, some did hear his advice.

Consequently, as if the very winds heard him as well, a gale blew down. It was so strong, some men, dead and alive, were pushed to the ground and the fires that lit the remaining torches around were put out. The living soldiers yelled and cursed for nature itself had gone against them. Meanwhile, further away from the gates, citizens began to realize something was very wrong. The assaulters were winning and not human. When some went to observe, they panicked and began to flee. Monsters, some screamed. Demons, others yelled. Panic spilled over from district to district, from the nearby the walls to the street of steel. Chaos was making its way through the city.

The Red Keep, at the edge of the city and far removed from the violence, for the time being, had its inhabitants unaware still of what was occurring. Tywin was plotting, Cersei and Jaime were fucking, Tyrion was drinking, Myrcella and Tommen were sleeping, each with guards at their door and Joffrey was gloating. Meryn Trant came running through the castle, Lancel and some other soldiers in tow. They headed straight to the King's quarters, while others went towards the remaining members of the current royal family.

Kings guards burst through the door, Trant leading them. "Your Grace," said Ser Meryn breathlessly, "we must hurry, your life is in danger. We have to get you to safety at once."

Joffrey stood up at once but was careful not to show fear. It would not do well for the King to look a coward in front of others. "What? What is the meaning of this?"

Further down the halls, Lancel charged through the door to the Queen Regent's room. Jaime fell out of bed at once, tumbling on the floor.

"Cousin Lancel," Cersei bit out, "what on earth has possessed you to enter my chambers like this?"

"I - I'm sorry your grace," stammered Lancel, "but it's an emergency."

"What sort of emergency?" asked Jaime, rising from the floor, putting on his clothes in a hurry.

"There's been some sort of attack at the gates. It's really bad out there…" said Lancel grimly. "The city's in a panic."

"This is ridiculous," said Cersei snidely. "Do you even know what's happening?"

"They were very insistent that the royal family was to be evacuated-"

"Enough of this," Cersei bared out her teeth, lioness she was. "You're an incompetent fool, and I am not going anywhere with you. Now get out."

Lancel stood there stupidly, stuck between running away from his terrifying cousins and doing what the soldiers bade him to. Suddenly, more Kingsguards came rushing through the open door.

"Now what," said Jaime.

"Your Grace, Ser Jaime, we must make haste. There's an incident getting worse by the second at the Old gates-"

"I just told them, they won't listen to me," Lancel tried to say.

"Mother!," Myrcella said, awakened and in a fright, "what's going on?" Tommen came in after her, just as bewildered as his sister.

"Unhand me you ingrate," Joffrey's voice echoed through outside the room as he stumbled in.

Tywin was brought in as well shortly after, fuming at being dragged from the Tower. Tyrion was brought in last.

"What a family gathering this is," said Tyrion cheekily, clapping his hands together as he stepped into the room. "Can someone tell me please what the fuck is going on?"

"My Lord, we,"

"Have to evacuate us because there's an incident at the gate, we know," Tyrion said sternly. "Anything else to contribute?"

"My Lords please we cannot delay any longer, they're coming any minute -"

"I will not move another step until you explain the reason why you disturb us, drag us from our rooms, causing all this commotion. Is it that you do not know? Do any of you even know what's happening?" huffed the Imp.

"Enough of this nonsense, I'm retiring to my chambers," said Tywin, turning to head back.

"No!" a soldier shouted, grabbing the arm of Tywin Lannister roughly. His family members tensed at the act. "We need to get you out and safe." the soldier said, presuming to command the Great Lion of Casterly Rock.

Tywin turned slowly to face the foolhardy men and was about to speak until a snarl in the distance was heard by the company present.

"What was that?" asked Joffrey. Cersei rushed to get to her children and have them within her arms' reach. The faces of the soldiers and guards in the room blanched. It made Jaime worry about what was to come. He made short work of getting his sword.

The snarling got louder and louder, closer and closer in proximity. The soldiers and guards circled the Lannisters, swords at the ready. Everyone waited with bated breath. For a few moments, everything was silent.

Just then, a hideously rotted creature jumped through the open window of the room. It charged directly at the men with their swords. Though cut down quickly, the Lannisters were in awe. Tywin was firm with his children. He would not have them entertain ideas of dead men rising and legendary creatures running amok. Here they were, real as they could ever be. It was breathtaking and terrifying all at once.

It didn't take long until more of them came. "Lannister, get your family out of here!" barked Ser Meryn. "We'll hold them off while you get away. There should be a boat waiting for you on Blackwater Rush."

"Should be?" asked Joffrey worriedly.

"Let's go," Jaime said. Cersei took her kids and urged them to follow, Tyrion and Tywin were not far behind. Lancel ran off with them. Moments after their hasty exit, a swarm entered the quarters. This particular group of undead included child-like wights, some of which were girls before their untimely passing. They pounced on Ser Meryn and the others remaining. Their screams echoed throughout the halls of the castle, pushing the Lions to run faster.

In the Street of Steel, a crowd frantically made their way over to the various weapons as a means to defend themselves, after seeing so many soldiers and guards die at the hands of the undead. Fewer in number were among the living. The undead masses broke through the gates, like a wave of death flooding the streets of King's Landing. Hundreds to thousands of people were dying, unprepared for the sheer violent relentlessness of the wights spreading further into the city. Some of the people who got their hands on weapons, however, were unskilled in battle, never having to fight a single day in their lives. They didn't last long. After all, if the armies and guards couldn't hold them back, ordinary civilians wouldn't fare much better. A small amount managed to survive, to buy time long enough to run and hide. People even started to run to the docks and jump into the water, hoping the sea would spare them. Others ran into the tunnels, under their beds in their homes, any crevice they could find and pray the dead wouldn't get to them. Most were unlucky hiding as well.

The Kingslayer got to work defending his family while making sure they were on the move, never stopping. The best bet for survival was that the ensuing chaos around cloaking them. They got ten feet in the distance before they were broken apart by further citizens running for their lives, splitting the Jaime with Cersei and her children ahead and Tywin, Tyrion and Lancel behind. A wight came up back from Lancel and ripped off his head. The squire's sword clattered to the ground, and Tywin was quick to pick it up, despite his old age. He did not spare a glance for his dwarf son and charged on ahead. Tyrion had no time to react; he had to focus on moving. The Imp spotted a dagger lodged in someone's head. He ripped it out and kept it close to his chest.

As they neared the Mud Gate, they saw ships on fire, overrun with the dead and boats sinking. Wild eyes searched desperately for one functional vessel. There was one at the very end of the docks on Blackwater Rush. Making their way to that lone boat, a roar was heard among the endless snarls. A towering figure jumped into the air and slammed down in the direction of the Lannisters. It was an undead, rotting giant. Its blue eyes were striking as it stared down the golden lions, marking them at the dead giant's prey.

Jaime stepped forward to face the beast. Cersei tried to keep her children close, but her eldest fretted. He squirmed from her touch. "Let me go! I can't stay with you!"

"Jaime is the best swordsman in the realm; there's nowhere safer-"

"Safer? Is that a joke?" Joffrey gestured to the ongoing violence.

Jaime dodged the giant's strikes best he could, nearly bumping into wights and people several times, bumbling and falling. He saw an opening and dove for the ankles of the giant and was successful in making the thing fall backward. Unfortunately, it fell through the gate leading to Blackwater Rush. However, it lay still. Assuming his enemy was defeated, he led his family over the corpse. Tywin was the first one to pass through. He was the one grabbed by the undead giant's hand. Crushed from the inside as it squeezed the Great Lion's body, Lord Tywin could do nothing but stare. His limbs were restricted in movement and blood came out of his mouth like bile would a sick person. He was thrown to the ground and crushed by the giant's hand. And thus ended the life of Tywin of House Lannister.

His children did not know what to feel and were not given time for Joffrey ran off ahead of his family. The King got himself stabbed by three different wights simultaneously. He was brought down by them as more of the undead ran to help tear the King to shreds. Cersei wanted to run to her firstborn, but Jaime grabbed her.

"C'mon," He said, dragging his sister away from the carnage and toward the boat that would mean their freedom. Other living people wanted the boat as well, but none were as skilled in combat as Jaime. He cut down all who got in between him and the vessel, for it meant he could save his sister, brother and remaining children. Formidable a warrior as he was, the desperate resort to unsavory tactics to survive. While Ser Jaime was kept busy with three different men, as well as one wight, a thief came to stab the blonde man in the side and then gouged his sword hand. When the Kingslayer dropped to his knees, he went for the kill, until Tyrion chucked his knife at the burglar's head, killing him instantly. The Imp helped his brother to his feet and helped flee to the boat, pointing their weapons at everyone living to fuck off.

The vessel was only mere feet away at this point. As determined the dead were at killing humans, they tore through structures to get to the ones hiding within homes and behind walls. The Lannisters ran, but Tommen and Myrcella fell as the undead fell on top of them from breaking through one wall. The poor children didn't stand a chance any more than their older brother did. Mycrella's throat was slit, and Tommen's eyes were ripped out as the dead continued to have their way with them. Cersei yearned to get to them, but Jaime stopped her, and she slapped at him to let her go. Together with Tyrion, the brothers dragged their sister to the awaiting boat. When they finally got on, Tyrion cut the rope off to sail away, and Jaime paddled on to get further away. Some people tried to get on the moving boat but failed as wights cut them down and ripped them apart. Others who were in the water beforehand tried to swim to the Lannisters' ship, but the Lions would not have anyone swamp their vessel. They jabbed and stabbed at everyone until they were left well enough alone. Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion watched the carnage continue as the city got farther away as they sailed the Rush west.

* * *

Sailing upon the town of King's Landing, they should have turned away when they noticed ice in the water. They should have left when they saw how eerily silent the city was. They should have run when the dragons, who were the size of newborn calves, began to act nervous, screeching as they got closer to the docks. They should have fled when the stench of death hit their noses. But Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen had come too far to turn back now. Her armies marched into the city and were met with no resistance. It wasn't that King's Landing was deserted, far from it. Piles upon piles of dead bodies were everywhere. The young Targaryen, her advisors, and her soldiers were astonished.

"What happened here to cause such violence to befall the city?" Daenerys asked, looking upon the corpses of children, no doubt from the local orphanage. "A battle?"

"This was no battle," said Jorah the Andal. "It was a massacre. Nobility, common folk and soldiers all lie here rotting. If the Lannisters are not among the dead, then they must have fled. This city is deserted."

The young royal began to walk her way over to the Red Keep which stood a distance away, but the range seemed a silly concept to her now. Given she was so far away not even a year past. Daenerys paid no mind to the winds that were blaring up ahead.

"Khaleesi, where are you going?" questioned Ser Jorah of his Queen.

"To the Iron Throne," she said, trudging along doing her best not to stomp on the bodies.

"We should not stay here. My Queen, it is not safe," her knight insisted. Missandei piped in too. "Perhaps it is best to heed Ser Jorah's advice, your Grace."

"No," Daenerys said. Fists clenching, she turned to her people. "The Throne is within my grasp, and you are asking me to walk away?" She yelled, in agony. "I have wanted this for so long. The Iron Throne can finally be retaken by the Targaryens once again, and you're telling me no?" She shook her head, adamant. "I will not turn away from the seat of power that was stolen from my family. I am taking what is mine, by right."

"The Lannisters are cutthroats and would not just cede the Throne without reason! Khaleesi I beg you, please, look at your feet! Look all around you! Whatever happened to this city can happen again if we don't flee right now." Ser Jorah pleaded with his Queen, but she would not have it.

"What threat could still be here? The city is deserted!" Daenerys exclaimed. "There's nothing left here!"

"Wait," Missandei spoke again, concern etched on her face. "I heard something." Some Unsullied soldiers must have heard it as well, for one of them was sent out by Grey Worm. Then the soldier paused, for blue eyes snapped open to stare back at him. It happened everywhere there were dead bodies. Eyes were opening, showing pairs of cold blue irises. Slowly the corpses began to twitch. It was all Jorah needed to spring into action. He shouted at the soldiers and the Dothraki to get into position and defend their Queen. He looked to the boats, which were far enough in the distance considering how deep everyone marched into the city, and saw the wind sweep the ships so fiercely that they were swayed away by the currents. Another wind swung, and the vessels were concealed by a sudden storm that decided to befall the land. Their hand was forced. They would have to retreat to the Red Keep and hope to fortify the best they could there.

On the way to the Keep, Jorah noticed some men on their steeds upon the hills overlooking the city. They stood still as if they were waiting for some specific thing to pass. His mind could not help but wonder to the stories he heard of as a child, of the Long Night and White Walkers roaming the lands. The Andal shook his head; his mind must not wonder, for he must protect his Queen from these unseemly creatures.

Daenerys never did know what to expect once she reached her homeland of Westeros, but there was one scenario in which she could not have possibly imagined. Dead men coming back to life, nay not life. Some perversion of what life was meant to be. Mindless and rampant in their violence they came upon like a wave of nightmares upon the unwitting masses of King's Landing. What a twist of fate as just as she arrived to take her Throne was the world to end in such an unexpected manner. Everyone heard the stories; of dead men rising to kill, of ancient evil ice demons roaming the lands to freeze kings in castles. No one dared to believe; no one questioned the chance that such myths were based on reality.

In one fell swoop, she lost them all; Missandei, Grey Worm, the Unsullied, the Dothraki and Jorah. Jorah, who had been with her from the first. Who betrayed and came crawling to her twice out of devotion and love. Her dragons fled, flying away from the icy dangers of the Night King, his White Walkers, and his endless undead Army. As night befell the city, the Mother of Dragons stood in the Throne room in which she desired to be in for so long, face to face with the ancient evil of the Night King. Initially, she thought death claim her as it had so many. However, the gods had a crueler fate in mind for the last of the Targaryens.

The Night King merely touched her once upon her forehead, and suddenly she lost all sense of mobility and sight. The world grew dark, and her body seized up and crashed upon the floor. They placed her behind the Throne, the symbol of power which began the Targaryen family's dynasty. It was on this day which the sun was last seen by Westeros for the time of days were over.

The Long Night arrived at last.

* * *

**Dany got introduced, and I'm sped up her story up as you can see. Then again the story in itself is quite illogical but entertaining to write :)**


	3. The Rains Weep O'er His Halls

**Hello there everyone, sorry about the wait! That finale, I'm not gonna go into that but let's just say it could have been done better (so could have some of the other ones, ya'll know the ones I'm talking about). I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

Westeros never was a pleasant to live. For peasants it was laboriously scraping together a livelihood to survive. For nobles and the like it was clawing over one another in all sorts of reprehensible ways to obtain absolute power and establish a durable legacy. For the rulers it was clinging to power to their last breath without getting killed in the process. In the Long Night however, the land of Westeros became far worse than it had ever been before. During the first three years, the storms came. They were fierce and unforgiving. Whatever was not destroyed was frozen. People searched for shelter wherever possible, and not everyone was charitable. If the undead failed to slay you, then it was the diseases that spread like plagues that killed you, horribly and slowly. If not disease, then it was the cold that froze you and if not the cold, then it was starvation that weakened the body until it could not function anymore. The Seven Kingdoms became savage lands where the weak never lasted and the strong were barbaric.

After the fifth year of winter, sources of food declined. Animals that could flee did so, while the ones that were unable were killed off in the closest areas where people resided. What remained were the ferocious beasts that thrived in the cold, like wolves and bears. Even ice spiders began to emerge from legend into reality. The land itself was frozen so no further crops could be grown. Any edible nourishment that grew in the trees were soon picked clean. When the stores of food in castles ran empty, people began to resort to desperate measures. After the people became aware that there was no more resources of food, circumstances worsened tenfold. The riots increased and money was worthless, for crumbs of food were more precious than gold and jewels ever were. Out of hopeless desperation, mothers smothered their babies in their sleep, as tears froze on their cheeks from the cold. Lords froze in their castle halls. The people that lingered and survived during times of winter were willing to commit unsavory acts to survive. Cannibalism was the new norm to replace the lack of food available. Children and the overweight were the easiest of prey. Then grown women and men. Brothers fought each other to death just to eat. One could no longer differentiate a wildling from a "normal" Westerosi. All were savages now. While civility died in the former Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, the White Walkers and their army began to recede. They no longer hunted the living with the same ferocity as before. The reason soon became known to all; the six Wolves of Winterfell.

Certain signs highlighted their arrival in an area. The winds would grow deathly quiet. Howls of wolves were heard in the night. The moon was always full on a night they attacked. And six pairs of deathly, icy blue eyes would stare at their prey for the evening. They began in the Dreadfort, where the Bolton escaped after the White Walkers ambushed the Northerners and their armies. After the massacre, countless soldiers were cut down, reducing everyone's forces to a drastically low amount. Roose Bolton, his bastard and his few remaining men hid in their fort, recuperating from the onslaught. While they rested and the Boltons were unaware, they came. Guards patrolling outside never stood a chance for these predators were too quick and their steps were silent. The men never even got a chance to scream. In a matter of moments, the soldiers' necks were snapped all the way around.

Lord Bolton was in his study. He could not sleep. He was not young; he lived through his fair share of winters. None were anything like the storm at Winterfell. So close was he to claim the castle for his own, and the White Walkers of all things came to thwart his plans. Victors wrote the stories of their triumph, so he could never honestly know what went on in the past millennia between the Boltons and the Starks. Perhaps it was winters like this that held the men of the Dreadfort back; mayhaps it was these ancient legends that kept the Starks in power and for so long.

As Roose was lost in his thoughts, a flicker of gust blows out a candle on his desk, catching his attention. He looked to the door and saw it remained closed. One by one, all the lights of all the candles in the room died as if some invisible ghost put them out. Or rather an invisible force that was making its presence known. The study grew colder and colder, chilling the man to the bone. The door to the room began to slowly open, yet the darkness concealed whom the intruder was, save for the startling, vibrant blue eyes resembling ice staring directly at Lord Bolton. At first it was just the single pair of eyes, but five more sets came lingering just outside the door. One by one, they began to walk into the room, which only remained illuminated by the slimmer of moonlight making its way through the lone window. Six beings who were formerly the Stark children, yet they were not children anymore. The three youngest underwent the starkest of changes; the younger boys were taller than their older siblings. Their skin was so pale it seemed grey, making their vibrant irises all the more jarring. They wore dark cloaks with hoods on, framing their gaunt looking heads. Each of them held a giant ice spear in their hands. Lord Bolton knew he'd failed if he tried to run. He doubted that fighting all six of them head on would make much difference either. Roose had to admit, he was cornered like prey before a pack of wolves.

Didn't mean he'd make it easy for them.

In the morning, Ramsay awoke to silence echoing in the castle halls. He held his knife close, feeling eerie and on edge. No candles were lit, so the only light came from the outside through the windows and openings of the Fort. It was not until he approached the doors to the great hall where he detected the odor of blood. By judging the strength of the smell, quite a bit of blood was shed. The bastard pressed his hand on the walls and felt a moistness to them. The texture was blood as well; it matched the odor. The door was left ajar slightly. Perhaps whoever was here already left, considering how quiet it was, but that was Ramsay's hope.

"Are you going to stay out there forever?" asked a voice belonging to a young woman from the inside of the hall. Ramsay stilled at the suggestion. She couldn't have sounded older than he was. But only a fool would assume she was alone. And where was his lord father? And the other men? Were they all slain?

"Surely you're not thinking of running off to the armory or anywhere off," she spoke once more. "Besides, if you try we'll catch you," she said sweetly. That confirmed it, she wasn't on her own. How many? The Dreadfort was so quiet, perhaps it was a small force of capable men. An army would generate far too much attention. The doors opened wider, revealing the hall to Ramsay and Ramsay to the stranger. Indeed it was some sort of young woman, but she was by no means ordinary. A tall one, with faded ginger hair, skin so pale it was grey, eyes so very blue. Like the eyes of the dead men from that day when the White Walkers came. She stared right at him with those eyes. The ginger would have been beautiful if not for the pallor of skin and those menacing irises. She smiled at Ramsay, the grin of wolf upon her dead face.

"Come in now," she spoke once again. From the shadows emerged five others, four boys and one other girl. The other girl was the shortest of them, looking even more deadly than her sister. Two of the boys seemed to be around Ramsay's age. The younger boys were nearly as tall as their ginger sister and so very skinny. Their skin was the same color, pale grey as were their eyes, icy blue. They were all grinning with such menace, all eyes on Ramsay. For the first time, he was beginning to feel pure fear, the kind he generated from other people. No one moved.

"Are you the bastard?" asked the ginger girl. "You must be him. Everyone else was so old."

_Everyone else. As if -_

"We killed them all," spoke the other girl. "Except the Lord of course." She turned her head slowly over to the end of the hall, where usually a fire would be roaring in the fireplace. However, something was blocking it, which was covered in a cloth. One of the young men, the one who seemed to be the oldest, walked over to this hidden object and removed the fabric. The room was dark, but Ramsay's eyes could see that it was a man nailed to wood arranged in a cross, the kind he was all too familiar with, the kind that resembled the vigil of House Bolton. And the man was the very Lord of the Dreadfort. Ramsay's father, Roose Bolton.

The Lord Bolton seemed to be unconscious or dead, Ramsay was not sure which. His body was mutilated, bits of skin was flayed from his body rather sloppily, almost rushed. Some of the wounds were rather deep. Dried blood adorned his naked, cut body. The eldest whom revealed Lord Bolton slapped him awake with such force it was sure the man's nose was broken beyond repair. As Roose came to, he heard some growls behind Ramsay. Great beasts near the size of ponies slipped around from behind him, walking over to the strange people in the hall. They smelled of rotten flesh, and their eyes matched that of their apparent masters. The creatures resembled the legendary direwolves of the wild North.

"Lord Bolton," spoke the young man who struck Ramsay's father.

"Do you know what a flayed man is to a pack of wolves?" Lord Bolton's eyes widened.

"Dinner," the eldest uttered with a smirk.

The beasts jumped onto the hapless Bolton as he was devoured violently and quickly. Ramsay was quick to flee. He did not care; he would not stay with those people. No not people, not even monsters. He did not know or care to know what they were. He just knew he had to get away.

"We told you not to run away, bastard!" He heard in the distance. The young man with curls for hair cut him off as Ramsay attempted to leave the castle. The short young girl was at the bastard's back. Then came the others surrounding him like a wolf pack ready to tear their prey to pieces. All he felt was the hit on his head from behind.

When he came to, there were chains on his wrists that had been on him for some time as it chafed his skin. Ramsay felt disoriented and hungry as if he hadn't eaten in days. His stomach hurt terribly. Six pairs of eyes were lingering in the background, staring him down once more. Those damn blue eyes.

"We were talking about your punishment," spoke a voice in the darkness, belonging to the red-haired girl from before. "Hanging would be too quick, poison and be eaten are not painful enough and beheading is too good for the likes of you," the other girl spat venomously. "But after some deliberation, we finally agreed to an execution fitting for your sort."

With no further delay, strong hands restrained him, grabbing his neck from behind, as two more sets of hands held him by his shoulders and his sides. A liquid was being forced down his throat, one that tasted of milk and honey. On and on it went, and just when his belly felt like it was going to burst open, another part of his body did. His bowels forced shit to come out of him, enough to make a small hill. He felt a sickly sweet substance smeared upon his person; his stomach, his back, his sides and his legs. Then came the tiny creatures. Ramsay could not see because of the surrounding darkness enveloping him, but he feared the worst; rodents and maggots along with other undesirable insects. Several hours passed until the critters began to eat their way through the shit and into the bastard's skin. Days came and went and still was Ramsay being devoured, slowly but surely. Gangrene developed on his limbs and bits of his skin throughout as he began to die from the inside out. All the while all Ramsay could do was scream, he could not cry, at least not for much longer, as the critters consumed an eye and he was absolutely dehydrated by that point. He lasted fourteen days in such a state. By the time his heart finally gave out, his legs fell in a rotted clump to the floor, arms barely holding up the remains that stood hanging from the chains. Most of the organs were rendered mush. The smell would have been unbearable for normal folk, but the Wolves of Winterfell were no such thing.

Not anymore.

Thus marked the end of Ramsay and the line of House Bolton.

Within the next moon, reports emerged that six unnatural beings roamed the Riverlands. It was said they always traveled together, and wherever they went, people perished terribly. When some dismissed the stories, they were reminded of what happened to House Frey in their own home.

At the Twins, Lord Walder was snug in his home while the peasants nearby starved horribly. The Lord was throwing an enormous feast, almost as if to spit the unfortunate who had no further means to eat anymore. Walder only had to means because he had his sons, nephews, and grandchildren round up whatever food they could find in the surrounding lands from people who couldn't fight back. Those unwise enough to try were killed, throats cut to the bone. Lord Walder was drunk on wine, leering over and groping girls young enough to be his great-granddaughters when candles illuminating the great hall were suddenly snuffed out. A hush fell over the room. Everyone was confused as to what was going on, until the doors burst open and a harsh gust of wind pushed through into the hall, chilling everyone to the bone. At the doorway, the six of them were revealed. The men that tried to fight the intruders were killed quickly and savagely. Lothar's head was clean off his shoulders. A grandson's heart was ripped from his chest. Another man's throat was slit, and so it went on as all six Starks made their way to the high table where Lord Walder sat transfixed in horror. Those that tried to run were eaten by undead direwolves. Many hid under the long tables, praying to whatever god would listen, despite half of them not believing in any deity to save them.

"You! You should be dead!" cried Ryger Rivers.

"Oh, but we did die, out there all alone the in the frozen North," Robb said. He took a look at the feast displayed before them.

"It seems you like to take advantage of the less fortunate. the naive and those who cannot help or defend themselves," Robb said, taking a piece of salted ham and throwing it to the floor. "It is high time that you be at the mercy of beings who shall spare you none."

"It was all Lord Walder, it was all him! His ideas, his wish! We had no part in it," cried Old Walder's other children, a few old enough to be grandparents themselves.

"You," Arya spoke, directing her attention to the Frey that struck her at the Wall. "I remember you. You were so bold when you struck me across my face. Where's your courage now?" She said to the man as he fell to his knees, beginning to cry in despair for what was about to transpire.

"Please," more cries from the Freys. "We don't want to die!" Most fell to their knees, begging for their lives before the Starks, hoping for a chance that a slimmer of mercy still lived in their cold dead hearts. A fatal mistake for it was not mercy that was inspired, but wrath. It was shown plain as day on their faces as expressions of outrage transformed the faces of the former Stark children into feral undead beasts incarnate. The Wolves of Winterfell delayed no further in getting to work.

"Where was mercy?" spoke Sansa, "when we were thrown to the winds of winter?"

"Where was kindness?" asked Bran, "when we wandered out in the cold?"

"No one batted an eye when we died, no one cared at all," said Rickon. "What makes you so bloody special?"

"You should have killed us yourselves," Arya said. "Chopped us up and set us on fire. Leave one wolf alive, and the sheep are never safe."

Walder Frey was put on his wobbly knees as he was forced to bear witness to every single member of his household be rounded up and killed. Two full days went by until every Frey was butchered savagely. Only then was Lord Frey's head was removed from his shoulders. The servants were spared, so they could live to spread the news; winter came for House Frey, and the Lions were next.

Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion Lannister initially fled to Casterly Rock, days ahead of the undead masses. Jaime and Tyrion knew it was only a matter of time before they came for the Rock. Whatever of their kin remained had to be warned of what was happening. Cersei did not care to urge anyone, but she did want to live. Being with Jaime was her best course of survival, even if it meant dealing with her Imp brother. Perhaps one day, and one day soon, the three of them will be placed in a situation in which Jaime had to choose between her survival and Tyrion's. She knew that when push came to shove, her twin would want her. She longed for that day.

As they walked around their childhood home, Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion encountered dozens of relatives whose names they did not even remember. Everyone was running around as if the people were finally beginning to understand the dangers that come with winter.

Their Uncle Kevan was running the castle. He was very similar to Tywin, to the point of being his shadow. Most people were fooled by the bravado that Lord Kevan exhibited, but Tyrion was not fooled. He was confident that his uncle was inwardly a nervous wreck with his elder brother Tywin taking the lead.

"Hello, Uncle," greeted Tyrion. "I wish we could have met under less dire circumstances."

"I don't have the time to spar with you Tyrion," Kevan said curtly while busying himself looking over some parchment. "Just get on with saying whatever it is you wish to say."

"Are you aware of what's been happening across Westeros?" said Tyrion. "Of what's become of King's Landing? Thousands died, hundreds of thousands. We were lucky to get out there alive."

"Of course, I've heard! I've heard all sorts of nonsense! Dead men are running around killing everyone in their path, rendering entire armies worthless! It's all anyone can talk about now, how the end of times have come upon us! Ludicrous, if your father-" he stopped, remembering that his niece and nephews were here, but just them. His brother Tywin was not with them, which confirmed his suspicions and what others were saying. Tywin Lannister was dead.

Kevan took a good look at his kin, how disheveled they were; blood on their torn clothing. Their eyes showed not a single one of them slept for days at a time. All three of them were weary and terrified. Cersei looked worse off than her brothers as if her soul was torn apart. It was said that King Joffrey and his siblings fell the day King's Landing did. Kevan thought of his son Lancel then. His boy was probably gone too, considering how he'd fail to appear in the last few days as Lannisters from all over were converging to the Rock.

"Uncle, there is a fair chance that they'll be coming this way, over to our home," said Jaime. "We need to prepare; it may be a matter of days until they get here. Please, Uncle, the longer we delay, there more of us will die."

Kevan Lannister was stubborn but knew better than to quickly dismiss what was being said in the Westerlands. The Lannister army was one of the best-armed forces in the realm. They could surely weather anything thrown at them, Tywin saw to that. Jaime and Tyrion insisted on reinforcing the castle walls and outer perimeter. By some miracle, Kevan agreed.

He scoffed and rummaged around his desk. "You know what they've started to call it? The Stark Winter, of all things. Gods," he uttered as the Lannister siblings exited the room.

It took an extreme amount of effort, but within the fortnight, constructions were built along the walls of Casterly Rock. From what the Lannisters knew, the undead was weak to fire, and fire alone. Assurances were made that all the bowmen had enough fuel to fire at countless wights. Pressed for time, they made the defenses as best they could.

The Army of the Dead came in the morning, instead of the night as they were expected to. A high fog of snow befell the castle and the surrounding lands. It was a challenge alone to see the person next to you, let alone an entire armed force that was to follow your command. Chaos spread through the castle. The Rock was overrun by wights within a matter of hours, despite the men's best efforts. The dead wouldn't stop. As the Lannisters learned, unlike the undead masses, the White Walkers were not affected by fire. Fire itself burnt away in their presence as if it too was afraid. By sun up the next day, the Lions were slaughtered. Save for Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion Lannister. Bandits came once the undead marched away, a considerable portion of the castle grounds already destroyed by the time they got there. All the food stores and valuables were gone and emptied.

At the behest of Ser Jaime, the Lannister siblings stayed on the run for months, and those months led to years. Sometimes they earned a reprieve, getting to stay at cabins, inns, and castles for a while, but they could never stay long, they could never settle anywhere. If it wasn't cutthroats, it was people driven mad by desperation, if it wasn't the starving people (noble or peasant), it was the undead, and if it wasn't the undead, it was the weather. The cold was the cruelest bitch of them all, for one could fight of people, dead or not, but winter always won. With its storms and its unforgiving temperatures that broke humans down. Death was like her husband, claiming all the victims. The Night King was like their son, getting to play with all the corpses at his pleasure.

Five years into the winter had the Lannister siblings haggard and tired. They weren't young, though age made little difference. Most people were fucked; tens of thousands died at that point. People began referring to it as the Stark Winter, looking for someone or some reason to place the blame on. The Stark tale was known well across the Seven Kingdoms. They shared it over campfires and ale when they weren't busy killing each other. Eddard Stark, head of his household was slain unjustly for supposed treason; his children rounded up and discarded beyond the Wall, left to die in the frozen wastelands in the wild North. And die they did, and while the world seemed to be done with the Starks, a sinister force was not.

The Stark Winter was a title given to this terrible age, in part for the demise of House Stark and the injustices the poor souls suffered at the hands of men. It was also due to the fact that six creatures who bore similar features to that of the Stark children ran around the Seven Kingdoms, killing and destroying those they felt deserved retribution. And who could stop them? They were undead beings, but different from the masses that came and went at their King's beck and call. They did not rot, and were far more durable. Fire couldn't hurt them, nor more than it hurt the White Walkers, but they had a more human-like appearance than the lieutenants of the dead army. Weapons, even those fashioned of valyrian steel did not seem to harm them like it did the Walkers. Since the White Walkers were not seen as often, winter was associated with the six of them. Some called them demon children, others called them the children of winter. Some people were beginning to believe that the winter was tied to the Starks. That if the Starks were to fall once again, winter itself would die and the people could be free. A group was forming, desperate to try to find some sort of solution, even if it was through means that they did not completely understand.

The Starks were creatures of ice; it was high time that fire finally is used against them. Since Daenerys Stormborn was out of commission and her dragons were unaccounted for, Melisandre of Ass'hai was recruited, a Priestess of the Lord of Light who'd been prowling around since the fall of Stannis Baratheon, who never managed to returned to Storm's End while traveling the Crownlands in rebellion of the crown of Joffrey. Together with the Brotherhood without Banners, who suffered devastating losses from the unforgiving storms of winter, they worked on a strategy to defeat the Stark menace. The Wolves of Winterfell were heard to be hunting the remaining Lions of the West, the infamous Lannister siblings, who were always on the run. Perhaps that could be used. Scouts were sent to search for the Lannisters. Many prayers were made, many fires lit, showing them the way to the Lions. It took about three moons to find them while they were traveling. While the Lannisters were making their way from Pinkmaiden Castle, as the Brotherhood approached them from High Heart. A red-haired woman in matching red robes and a man with a top-knot were among the first seen by the Lannisters as they finally crossed paths.

"My Lords, my Lady, what a surprise to find you here," spoke Thoros of Myr. "It's been some time since we last saw each other."

"Step aside," urged Ser Jaime. His hand went to his sword, but the Red Priest took notice of something.

"Ah it seems the frostbite's gotten to you too," Thoros pointed out. "Shame it got your sword hand of all things. Your and your siblings have seen better days. Then again, we all have at this point."

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Tyrion, ax in hand.

"We need you to be bait," explained Melissandre, rather calmly, knowing very well how it all ends.

"Bait for what exactly?"

"The Starks of Winterfell of course." the priestess said matter-of-factly. "They've been searching all seven kingdoms for you."

"And you think we're just going to let you take us to them?" said Cersei while Jaime unsheathed his sword.

"Your skill is undisputed Ser," said Beric Dondarion addressing the Kingslayer. "However, you lost your dominant hand, which you've wielded a sword for most of your life. I doubt your brother and sister fare much better than you do when it comes to combat. Please, do not try to fight us."

"We don't intend to take you anywhere we just need to buy time," added the Red Witch of Ass'hai.

"Enough of this," spat Cersei, brandishing a dagger of her own. "We will not stand by as you lie in wait for those accursed beasts to come and kill us so you can kill them."

"We have no intention of killing anyone. I'm fairly certain the Starks cannot be killed and that they'll want to execute you themselves," said the drunken priest, taking a swig of his blackberry wine bag.

"If you do this, you'll be aiding in murder," argued Tyrion.

"People have been killing each other for less these past few years. Mothers are killing their children. Men kill their brothers, their friends in arms," said Beric. "Children and the weak are being eaten in the place of livestock."

"Westeros has changed since winter befalls the lands. The people act out of hunger and fear, desperation, nd despair, for the night is dark and full of terrors. What are three lives in exchange for the safety and survival of humanity itself?" spoke Melissandre.

"Have you seen them by the way?" said Thoros. "We have. They're incredible. They're more durable than the rest; nothing can hurt them or kill them, except maybe a prayer. That is should the Lord of Light heed our call."

"You're going to pray?" Jaime said. "And why would a god deem to give two shits about your prayers?"

"Why else would we be here?" responded Beric. "He led us, his light showed us this way. It's how we found the three of you."

"At last, we finally found you," said a voice hidden in the snow-covered brushes. Emerging from them was Robb, who bared his teeth akin to a wolf, his eyes making him that much more intimidating. His siblings came to his side, waiting to go for the kill.

"How we've longed for this moment," said Sansa, as the others nodded in concurrence. "Now we get our revenge."

"I see you've lost your hand Kingslayer," said Bran. "Fitting, considering its the one you tried to kill me with. Though it's a shame, I didn't get to chop it off myself."

The Brotherhood fell back, leaving the Lannisters to the Starks as the tables turned at last in the latter's favor. The Stark siblings circled the Lannisters and cornered them, wolves upon lions.

"You know I can never understand why you'd want to fuck her," said Arya, pointing at Cersei. "She's not pretty. And you were going to kill our brother for her?"

"That's hardly worth it I'd say," said Rickon.

"Hardly," said Sansa. "And you Cersei, you had my wolf slaughtered. We were bonded to the very soul. I felt empty when she was slain. You bitch," the red-haired girl snarled at the former queen. The six of them got closer to their targets.

"It's a shame all your children are dead; I wanted to see you watch them die," Sansa continued.

"Especially Joffrey," said Robb.

"How did it feel to watch them die, Cersei!" yelled Arya.

"Enough!" said Tyrion. "Joffrey is dead and died terribly. King's Landing has fallen. Our House is irrevocably fucked; we cannot restore it to its former glory. We have no gold, we're old, and all that remains of House Lannister. You won."

"Won did we?" spoke Jon. "Does this look like a victory to you? We're dead. Our father was unjustly executed for your family's sins. We were sent to die and die we did, terribly and slowly in the wilderness of the Cold North. And no one batted a fucking eye. We did not ask for this, to be resurrected by the hands of an ancient being who wishes to destroy man with cold and death. But all the same, we go, from place to place, killing men as we're bid, no matter how much they beg, promise or bribe."

"You know when you die, nothing is there," said Arya. "Nothing at all, just a great black nothingness."

"If you're there long enough, you forget everything; your name, your family, the people you knew, the people you love, all that you did," Rickon said.

"And then you revert to what you were before life." Jon finished. "Nothing."

"As if you Starks are so honorable! You're no better than the rest of us! Here you are, ready to kill us, after already murdering countless souls! As if you could fare any better than me or any other man, when faced with difficult choices. Protect the innocent, defend the weak, protect the king, obey the king, obey your father, so many vows! No one could keep them all! By what right does the wolf judge the lion?" yelled Jaime, charging forward. Jon and Robb stepped forward, brandishing their spears and blocking his sword with a dual parry. Arya and Sansa chased Cersei through the woods. She didn't get far. Rickon stood over Tyrion with a menacing grin, and Bran watched the Kingslayer with bated breath, waiting for his chance. The sisters dragged Cersei by her blonde hair, while she kicked and tried to stab them both. The knife bent in the process. Sansa threw Cersei across the clearing against a tree, making snow, icicles and her fall with a thud. Tyrion still could not move with Rickon towering over him. He made to move, but the youngest Stark blocked him.

"Now, now," he said cheekily. "We both know how that would end. Why bother anyway? They hate you; you know that. They never cared for you. You don't have with them what I have with my kin."

"Jaime does care for me," Tyrion said. "Even so, they're still my family. I will not stand by as we're slaughtered like cattle."

"Then you shall die in vain." with no further delay, Rickon grabbed Tyrion by the throat and threw him against a tree as well.

"Even now, the bitch is still fighting," commented Robb as Cersei feebly tried to fight against Sansa and Arya, who was playing with their prey.

"Cersei!" Jaime cried out. In his momentary lapse of distraction, Bran jumped in and stabbed the former kingsguard in the middle of his left thigh. He yelped in pain.

"Jaime!" Cersei returned, reaching out for her brother, but her hand was stabbed clean through by Arya. She exchanged looks with her older sister. "Go ahead. She's yours."Sansa nodded and smiled in gratitude, lifted Cersei by her head, and forced the older woman to look right into Sansa's bright blue eyes. Sansa grabbed Cersei forcefully by her cheeks and struck her spear deep into the heart of the eldest Lannister sibling. Cersei gasped, and she was struck a fatal blow. In turn, Jaime was held back by Jon and Robb, and Bran grabbed his spear and plunged it deep into the heart of the infamous Kingslayer as well. Tyrion cried for his fallen siblings, the last of his kin. Now he breathed knowing he was the final Lannister that ever lived. The Starks were busy severing the heads of the Lannister twins, impaling them on Bran's and Sansa's spears. They paid no mind to Tyrion, for he was too bereaved in the moment of losing the last of his family. While they were reveling in the victorious kills, the ones sought after for so long, the Starks did not notice the chanting in the background. While they were rejoicing in the victorious kills, the Starks did not see the chanting in the background.

_"Āeksiot Ōño_

_nyke iepagon aōha dohaeragon bisa zōbrie bantis_

_nyke jorepagon bona ao maghagon ōños isse bisa jēda hen ossȳngnon_

_dohaeragon īlva ñuha āeksio_

_giēñagon these qrimbrōstan souls lēda aōha perzys_

_dāez zirȳ hen se belma hen sȳndror_

_dāez īlva hen se Bantāzma se zȳha ossȳngnoti"_

It was repeated constantly as if a prayer was being uttered. The Red Woman and Thoros were the sources of the prayer. Eventually, a fire began to emerge on the snow-covered ground which they all stood upon. It rose, separating itself into six individual flames. They were flames borne of a higher power, and thus were not so quickly extinguished. The fires grew enlarged to the size of boulders and quickly moved straight into the chest of the Starks. They all fell to the ground instantly, while the Red Priest & Priestess continued their prayer. After some moments, the two stopped their chant, and everyone converged slowly upon unconscious Wolves of Winterfell.

"Are they dead?" asked Tyrion.

"No," said Melisandre, inspecting them. "It'll take more than that to destroy them." She said as she rose, then sharply fell to the ground. Thoros fell as well, suddenly weakened.

"What's happening?" asked Beric, running to the side of his friend.

"The price of our prayers it seems," said Thoros wryly.

"Fear not, Beric Dondarion, we were aware of this. But it is all the Lord's will, his plan. Spring will come again, and this is the path required to get there." Melissandre said, suddenly sounding ages older. Her hair began greying at an impossible rate.

"I guess I won't be around to bring you back anymore," Thoros said, pushing his flask against his friend's chest with the last of his strength. "Don't waste it," he said weakly.

"Never," promised Beric. Thus the lives of the Lord of Light's priests ended.

"What the fuck was that?" asked Tyrion.

"Oh, you're alive," remarked Beric.

"No thanks to the likes of you," said the Imp bitterly.

"For what it's worth -" Beric began.

"Save it," Tyrion cut him off. "I've no patience for false sympathies. I'll not suffer them now."

Beric held out the blackberry wine to Tyrion. He shook it a bit, offering. Tyrion stared at him angrily for some time, ultimately taking it anyway.

"We should burn them." Beric gestured toward the remains of Cersei and Jaime.

"They're headless," Tyrion stated.

"Never stopped them before." Beric insisted.

"Even headless?" said Tyrion, shocked. Beric nodded.

"Gods," Tyrion uttered, taking a deep swig.

"And, we should bury them," spoke Beric, turning his attention back to the still bodies of the Starks. "Back up North, in the crypts of Winterfell."

"We? Are you mad? We're leagues from there, we'll never make it." said Tyrion.

"It's the only place that will hold them."

After burning Cersei and Jaime Lannister, the Brotherhood with Tyrion trekked their way up North with those that remained, to the land of Winterfell, and put them into stone coffins that had been fashioned when Lord Eddard was Warden. Direwolf statues stood guard over their graves as they laid buried with the rest of their kin in a crypt that held eight-thousand years worth of relatives. The Brotherhood exited the tombs, returning to the courtyard of the castle.

"You know it's odd," Beric observed. "That they never came."

"Who?" asked Tyrion.

"The White Walkers."

"You want them to come?" said Tyrion exasperatedly.

"Of course not, but they were his," Beric said. "Why not come for them?"

"Perhaps they served their usefulness and were no longer needed," Tyrion said.

"I'll say," Beric said. "You know I heard they stole various greatswords from castles of countless great Houses. Where the swords went, know one seems to know."

"Don't you think we should have asked them that?"

"We weren't in a position to ask them. Hardly worth the risk of them breaking free."

"You know what's odd to me?" said Tyrion. "The fact that they haven't rotted."

"Well, they're not dead."

"Neither are the masses at the Night King's command, technically, but they rot just fine. Are you sure they're going to stay put?"

"No," answered Beric.

"What do you mean, no?" said Tyrion. "You don't know?"

"I don't know. I can only hope that Thoros and the red Priestess were successful and that their sacrifice was worthy. That's faith. It's the acknowledgment that you can never know all and that you don't need too. You know what you know and what you don't you'll learn if you're meant to."

Tyrion shook his head in wonder at Beric.

"To be a religious man," he uttered.

"When the Lord of Light resurrects you seven times, you tend to believe in him," said Beric.

"You've died seven times? And came back?" Tyrion sputtered.

"Yes, and the eighth time will likely be my last," said Beric. "Unless my Lord as other plans in store for me."

"Is it true then?" asked Tyrion. "Is there nothing after?"

Beric looked at Tyrion and said, "No." The man turned and walked ahead as the party made ready to leave Winterfell. Tyrion looked on after him.

"I miss whores," he said, to no one in particular.

* * *

**What a doozy, am I right? So much violence! Some of these parts were stuck in my mind for years, its great to finally get it all out! See you next chapter.**


	4. The North Remembers

**Here's the next chapter, sorry its taken me so long! Had a jam-packed summer and a busy fall season :)**

**These next 2 chapters: actually the entire fic really, are dedicated to Joie Waxler, who was a colleague of mine at of my jobs in my career. They are an awesome person, and when we met we totally hit it off. We both liked the Game of Thrones show, and talking about these ideas I had for the fic had us so excited, I went ahead and put this fic together for them. So I hope you enjoy it Joie! And everyone else of course.**

**Happy Halloween!**

* * *

It had been ten years into winter. Circumstances deteriorated to a point where the lands of Westeros were nearly unlivable. The people that were still among the living were trapped inside where they were forced to stay indoors for several days at a time because the cold was so terrible. In the North a man and his wife braved outdoors, traveling from an old tower. The wife was anxious; however, as they neared an area which was so notorious, most people never ventured within a hundred miles if they had a choice.

"We shouldn't be here," said the woman, looking frantically over the castle grounds. "Don't you know what place this is?"

"Aye I know, but we're gonna freeze if we stay out here any longer," her husband argued. She could not disagree, her body was already far too stiff from the frigid winds of the North. Neither of them could bear much more after wandering for days.

"I don't like this," she insisted, wrapping her arms around herself. A harsh breeze blew in just then, nearly pushing the pair into the sea of snow before them.

"Do you want to die?" he exclaimed, dragging his wife across the snow. "Let's go!"

As the pair made their way, the winds got fiercer, as if the winds themselves came alive and began to chase the couple into what was formerly known as Winterfell. After the slaughter of tens of thousands of Northmen, and the emergence of the White Walkers with the undead, along with the frigid weather, no one dared approach the castle. Some said the land was haunted with ghosts of the Stark family or some other unearthly presence lingered waiting to claim unwitting victims. It was also observed that those who went to the place where winter fell would never return from it. Once the man and his wife got past the gate, it became harder to see what was around because the winds intensified into a storm where snow was consistently hitting their faces, stinging them from the cold. They stumbled around blindingly for several minutes until at last the man felt a door and a knob. He wrenched it open, dragging his wife inside with him. He slammed the door behind them, and he lay against it to keep it shut behind them. They heaved for a while, catching their breath as they were completely encased in darkness.

"It's pitch black in here," the woman commented nervously.

"Nothing we haven't been through before," the man said. "But hang on, let me get a light going, make us warm."

Once a fire was started, and they began to settle in and soak in the warmth the fire provided, the woman began to notice something about their surroundings.

"Harold," she said, calling her husband's attention. She pointed down the way of where they were. The fire wasn't massive, so the visibility was limited to a few feet of distance, but the pair of them were able to make out a few statues. Direwolf statues among some human ones.

"Gods, where are we?" she asked nervously.

"I think it is those crypts that people have talked about," the man mentioned as he tended to the fire.

"What?" she shrieked. "Oh gods, no, we have to leave, we have to run!" The wife pleaded, grabbing her husband's arm.

"Run?" Harold wrenched himself out his wife's hands. "Are you mad? With what's going on outside? We'll die out there!"

"We'll die in here if we stay here, I'm sure of it," she said, a total wreck. "I don't want to stay here, I don't -"

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, annoyed, and out of patience.

"The dead have been running around killing us all, we're stuck in here with who knows how many dead people and you ask me what I'm afraid of?" she said breathlessly. "Gods!"

"There's nothing else we can do but sit here and wait!" he yelled. "How many people have we seen freeze out in the cold? Tell me! I don't want either of us to end up like that! So we have to stay here until the storm passes and then we can just leave, just walk away and never come back okay?"

"I don't even know why you wanted to come North..."

"It's not like there's even a difference anymore, North, South it's all cold, all snow and ice. There are fewer people here, less chance to get killed and eaten, less chance to get robbed."

"I know, I know," she said. "Gods, I'm still so cold." She shivered violently, but it wasn't necessarily from the cold. Her husband put his arms around her, but it did nothing to abate the shivers. He was cold himself. Then he formed an idea in his head. The man got up at once and took a piece of lit firewood, holding it up like a torch, and began to walk toward one of the graves.

"Harold, Harold no," she began to plead, hand reaching out him in fear of what could go wrong, "What are you doing?"

"We're both bloody freezing," he argued tersely. "I'm so fucking tired of being cold."

"But -"

"No one else is here but us! The dead here are just that, dead and buried in their graves. IF there were anyone here to hurt us, they would have done so already. So I'm going to look for cloaks or something to keep us warm." he huffed, briskly going on his way. "As if others haven't done worse."

"We're going to die," she said to herself. Her husband went on his way and began open graves, not even bothering to look at the names. Most of the graves he managed to open were filled with bones, rags, and dust. However, he was lucky with a few, getting some cloaks. He found them in one grave of a young man and another in a young woman. The man noted that both corpses seemed recently buried and that both looked somewhat similar like they were siblings. In between finding and opening the graves of the boy and girl, he found a second young man buried as well. Before the three of them, he came across three others, and their clothes were too small. The man walked off at once and wrapped the second cloak he took to his wife, who continued to shiver.

"What's going on with you?" he asked. "You've been by the fire all this time, I got you a cloak, what more do you need?"

"It-it's not the cold," she said. "Something's wrong."

"For the last time there's nothing wrong-" He was interrupted by a loud, sharp intake of breath heard in the distance. It froze the married couple to their bones. Someone was rising from the dead. And then it went to two someones and three.

"Oh, gods! I knew this would happen. I knew it! We have to get out of here! C'mon let's go, let's go!" she grabbed her husband, and they ran off into the cold. The door shut behind them once more.

Six people rose from their graves, yet none of them had terrible blue eyes. Their eyes were normal, human. The Lord of Light's prayer appeared to have done its good work.

Or did it?

The eldest heard a sharp intake of breath. "Sansa?" he asked quietly. "Sansa!"

"Robb!" he heard in response. "Sansa!" he called again. "Robb!" he heard her sob out of joy. They dashed into each other, their bodies collided and almost fell together. He listened to the others call him, in utter disbelief. Confusion permeated across both siblings' deep blue eyes, but for the moment, they were happy because they were together.

"I can't believe this!" Sansa said, "I can't believe we're here together, are we alive? How are we alive?" Her older brother shook his head as he had no answer for their predicament. Just then, a figure emerged from the shadows.

"I don't understand," said Bran, who appeared from the darkness of the crypts. "I remember us being out there beyond the Wall, but-"

"Bran? Bran is that you?" Robb said, mouth agape. Sansa did a double-take as well.

"Yeah, it's me. What's wrong with my voice? It sounds deep." Bran, now taller than Sansa, rubbed at the cartilage of his throat. His cobalt eyes widened in realization. "Wait? Did I get older?"

"You certainly got taller," Robb commented with a small smile. Sansa nodded in concurment.

"I guess I did too," remarked Rickon, who appeared next to his older brother, just a hair shorter than Bran. Brandon turned to look behind himself. "It seems Arya did not though," he chuckled. Arya walked up in between her younger brothers, both boys towering over her, making her seem all the smaller. Despite her height, she and Sansa matured as well, more women than girls.

"Bran, Rickon, you've shot up like trees! Sansa, you got taller too!"

"Even Arya grew a bit," Bran jested at Arya, still small stature, now the shortest of the six. She punched her brother harsh enough for his remark, grey eyes narrowed momentarily. She looked around. "Where's Jon?"

"I'm here," spoke a voice in the darkness. Jon Snow, last to emerge, walked over to his siblings. While he was happy at the opportunity to see his family once again, his expression was wary and his grey eyes were cautious as he took in the view of all his siblings. It was as if he did not trust sense of sight to accept what he saw as reality.

"How are we here in the crypts?" asked Rickon. "We far in the North, beyond the Wall..."

"We died," Jon said solemnly. "We all died out there."

"Yes," Robb agreed. "We did."

"Maybe this is hell? Or heaven? Or some other place?" asked Bran.

"I think we'd know if it was one or the either," said Sansa.

"Maybe someone found us and buried us all in our home," offered Arya.

"But we were beyond the Wall." Rickon pointed out. "Who could have brought us back here?" No one knew the answer.

Robb looked out to the exit. The Starks walked out of the crypt, passing by the fire that was lit. The group of siblings exchanged looks, wondering over who lit it. Outside, they came across two pairs of footprints leading out of Winterfell on the clean white snow. It was a quiet atmosphere, completely serene. They went over to the castle, and once inside, the Starks roamed the halls of their home. Unbeknownst to the young Starks was a couple who just recently perished. Bodies concealed from prying eyes, their throats were slit, eyes gouged out. The woman's final word was a scream for her husband, Harold. Walking towards the Great Hall, the siblings stumbled across dozens of skeletons lying around.

"By the gods," uttered Sansa.

"It was a massacre," noted Jon.

"Look at the sigil," said Robb. He picked up one of the shields that lay scattered on the floor.

"Boltons," he observed darkly, inspecting the object.

"Boltons? Here?" Bran asked. "How?"

"They must have come after-" Robb stopped, putting it together. "After they sent us to our deaths."

"Those bastards!" Arya spat, furious. "It's what they get for taking our home!"

"It seems like they got what they deserved. Someone slaughtered all these people," the eldest Stark said. He picked up a bone, inspecting it. "Though all the remains are too old. A massacre that must have happened long ago, years ago."

Sansa passed a finger over a table. Her hand was coated with a thick layer of dust, she held it up so the others could see. "I agree; I don't believe anyone has been here for quite some time."

"Then where did everyone go?" asked Bran.

"How long were we gone?" asked Rickon. It was a question that would linger in their minds.

"We will find no answers here," said Robb. "We must leave."

"Leave Winterfell?" Sansa said, incredulous. "This is our home, we cannot leave."

"Sansa, we do not even know what is happening," Robb said in turn. "We were far in the North, and suddenly we're back in our home with no recollection of how. The people that used to be in this castle have departed, and it is clear that some time has passed, which we have yet to determine."

"Does anyone remember what went on before?" Bran asked his family.

"Being thrown out beyond the wall, starving, freezing," Arya answered. "Dying." a chill passed through them all. All of them grimaced at the memory of passing on, which would haunt them forever.

"And after that?"

"Getting swallowed up by a great darkness that consumed our very souls," answered Jon. Everyone else turned to his direction.

Robb inhaled. "And after that?"

The siblings exchanged a look and shook their heads. None of them could recall what happened after that.

"Nothing," answered Sansa quietly. The others nodded in agreed, except for Jon. He remained quiet. As far as all siblings were concerned, they remained in darkness until the very moment they awakened in the crypts.

"That settles it then," Robb said. "We have to go out there and see what's gone on. Let's go around and see if there's still anything left that's useful while traveling."

"And where will we be going?" asked Sansa. Robb stood there, pondering. "Well, we were all the way up North but..." he stopped looking around at his siblings who silently shared his sentiments. They were in no rush to get there soon, not after what they experienced.

"South then," said Arya.

There wasn't much found other than rusty blades and armor, rags of cloth and remains of food that rotted long ago. The Starks gathered what they could, each stopping at their own bedrooms while doing so. Each stood within their quarters, looking at the state of it after ten years of abandonment. The smell of mustiness was in the air, the sheets were beginning to fall apart as were some pieces of furniture and decorations adorning the rooms. Where the sigil hung throughout the castle was rotted where the grey direwolf stood, giving the impression of an undead beast. The siblings met in the silent courtyard, where the snow was fresh and untouched. The silence was overwhelming, as if the siblings were the only people left in the world. With what little they could recover in weapons, clothes and few supplies, the Stark clan left the castle in search of answers.

Venturing out of the castle walls, the Starks went to Wintertown. What they came across was alarming. Among the hills of snow, were the scattered remains of common folk who lived in town. Broken barrels, skeletons and some homes destroyed, as if crushed by some large objects that were no longer present. They went on to Castle Cerwyn, where there was more of the same. Nothing but empty and dusty castle walls, bones among the debris. As they traveled further south, they saw snow and ice in every direction. Because of the perils of travel, the Starks took their time. After all, they had to explore on foot, for every location they came across living horses were nowhere to be found. It took over two fortnights to get to Moat Cailin. What they came across what astounding. Beneath the endless piles of icy snow were the remains of the stronghold. Whatever forces passed through the area did so violently.

The few towers that did remains of the Moat fell down, crushing whoever was hapless enough to be within range of falling stone at the time, as evidenced by the skeletons below. The tree that grew out of the Gatehouse tower fell with it, branches scattered about. The stump that remained from the tree stood with ghastly edges. Like the other parts of the North they saw, Moat Cailin was just as lifeless and cold.

"What happened here?" asked Robb in utter disbelief. He remembered being in the three towers that once stood upon the land. To see them reduced to rubble was a jarring sight to witness. "What could have knocked the towers down?"

"A grand battle," answered Jon. Among the rubble was a sea of bones, skeletons as far as the eye could see. There were tattered flags, colors belonging to several Northern houses. Jon surmised there was a final stand against a mighty enemy that triumphed in the end.

"So many bodies," uttered Arya. Everyone took care not to step on any remains. The Starks went on further south. Wherever they went, there was little difference from what Winterfell and the Northern regions looked like. It was unnerving to witness such a stark change in the environment when they were told tales of the beautiful, rich, and warm climate and colorful lands of the south. The southern areas now were as lifeless as they had never been before, grey and cold overtaking every crevice, silence echoing each hall. The closest they found to people were frozen corpses and skeletons.

Even the swamplands of the Neck had been transformed by the winds of winter. The swamps were covered in icicles and frozen water. The quicksands were as hard as ice. As they searched for refuge from the cold wilderness, there were rustles in the distance. For once, the Starks were not alone. Someone, or rather something was with them, however, lurking and hidden among the barren trees. The rustling continued, as the movement was sensed, jumping and creaks were heard left and right. The Starks tensed, getting ready for a fight. Just then, Bran received a migraine so severe it made him gasp.

Rest easy, Brandon Stark, you are among friends. Tell your family to stand down. We mean you no harm.

"Bran, are you alright?" Robb asked as he searched fervently among the area. The others stood vigilant, forming a circle to face an unknown amount of assailants from as many sides as possible.

Please, trust us.

Bran grit his teeth. "Wait," he exclaimed to his siblings. "Stand down."

"What?" said Arya.

"Do it!" Bran insisted. Begrudgingly, the Starks put down their arms and waited, all looking at Bran warily. From beyond the trees came forth a skinny figure with a gaunt-looking appearance. It was as if the person were suffering from malnutrition due to starvation. It was a man, though haggard as he may be. Scruffy in appearance, he was accompanied by an equally thin woman. Her only distinguishable feature was her curls of hair, though more shaggy than buoyant.

"Greetings," said the strange man calmly. "I am Jojen Reed. This is my sister Meera," he gestured a skinny arm to his grave-looking sister. "We hail from Greywater Watch, not a league away from where we're standing. If it pleases you, lords and ladies, we can escort you to our home where we can converse and answer the many questions I know you all have." Jojen stared at the Starks knowingly. It unnerved them.

"You say you're the Reeds," spoke Sansa. "Who's your father?"

"Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. I dare say your father and ours were friends," answered Jojen.

The Stark siblings exchanged glances with each other, silently agreeing that they would go with these strangers for the time being. "Lead us then," said Sansa.

"Thank you for being so cooperative. We were expecting more difficulty if I may be so blunt," spoke Jojen. "Thank you for heeding my word," he looked at Bran directly as he spoke, which caused goosebumps to emerge on his skin.

"How did you do that?" inquired Bran suspiciously.

"With my mind, I called out to you. You have that power too, you know. There's a fair chance you all do in fact. It's due to the blood of the first men flowing through our veins. It's fairly rare nowadays, but it does appear every so often in people descended from the First Men," explained Bran.

"How do you know all this?" asked Bran.

"I read a bit on what scraps I could find, the rest I figured out on my own through my sight and dreams," Jojen replied. "You'll learn too, Brandon Stark." The statement jarred Bran, as it did the other Starks. This Jojen said Bran's name with such familiarity as if they had been friends for years instead of total strangers.

"Not much further now," Jojen informed the others. Sure enough, they came upon a castle that stood out among the frozen bogs of the area. Usually one would be cautious of where to walk, but it had been so cold for so many years that the grounds were as solid at Greywater Watch as they were anywhere else. There was a legend that no one could conquer the castle due to the difficulty of getting to it. Some even claimed the castle moved. It mattered not if the rumor rang true, for it was irrelevant now. If it could have moved in the past, it could not move anymore. It was frozen like everything else in Westeros.

"We've returned!" announced Jojen to an unknown audience. He tapped the large gate before them three times with a large staff he carried with him, undoubtedly a signal of sorts. At once the gate was opened revealing a small group of people. None of them looked better off than the Reeds, everyone varying in different stages of emaciation. It was a harrowing sight. The people of Greywater Watch bore their eyes at the new arrivals, watching the Starks as the Reeds led them into the castle halls to meet with the Lord of the castle. The group observed the new guests with varying looks of horror, yet none dare to speak. It confused the Starks but they did not inquire as to why, merely assuming that the terrors of winter put great fear into the hearts of men.

Lord Howland Reed appeared as sickly and weak as the people who lived in his castle. His age did him no favors. He was confined to his bed, where he was set to breathe his final breath. As the Starks entered the Lord's chambers, they were greeted with a toothless smile by an elderly man they presumed to be Lord Reed himself. His grey hair was withered, and his skin was taut all over his body.

"Lord Howland Reed?" asked Robb. Robb had a rare occasion to see the Lord of Greywater Watch, but he had assuredly looked far healthier and alive in memory than in this moment.

"Forgive me my Lords and Ladies for my horrid appearance," the Lord Reed's voice was wavering. "But under the circumstances," he paused to swallow thickly, "there is little than can be done. We have all seen better days than these."

"What has befallen the lands of Westeros my Lord?" asked Sansa, ever so proper.

"Winter," the elder Lord answered grimly. "And no one was ready. The storms that came were brutal and what came with the storms..." Howland paused once more, coughing. Meera rushed to his side to aid him and have him settle down.

"What came with the winter storms?" pressed Bran with urgency.

"He is a creature known as the Night's King who leads his legions of undead. He is no man, but a being of ice and evil. He controls his masses through a magic that is both ancient and dark as he is said to be. It is said that he reached as far as King's Landing in these many moons."

"What this Night's King nonsense you're on about?" said Sansa exasperatedly. "This is the stuff of fairy tales." She recalled the stories Old Nan would tell her siblings when they were smaller, tucked in their beds and safe from the world.

"He is real," Jon spoke grimly.

"Jon?" Robb asked.

"I was the last one," Jon Snow said. "The rest of you were gone. First Rickon died, then Bran and Arya, then Sansa. And then you Robb." His tone turned one of pure sorrow. "I was alone with the bodies of my dead family. When Robb finally passed on, I lost my mind. I screamed and screamed so loudly that he must have heard me. He came for me in that cave. I was so weak, I couldn't fight back. All I could do was watch as he grabbed me by my throat and killed me." Jon gingerly touched his neck. "He snapped my neck."

Robb touched his brother's shoulder to comfort him. "If you say this is real Jon, then I believe you." The others agreed, even Sansa, begrudgingly.

"How long has it been since then? Since the first storms of winter blew through the kingdoms?" questioned Jon.

"Ten years." The answer rang in the ears of the Starks as they processed the disturbing fact. Chills went down Jon's spine. Sansa took a moment to sit down as Robb ran his hands through his hair. Arya stared off into the distance while Bran covered his face and Rickon paced around the room restlessly.

"It cannot be," sputtered Robb.

"I'm afraid it is," spoke Jojen. "Each year that passed since winter began has sent Westeros further in chaos. Circumstances are dire in every region. Resources are practically nonexistent nowadays."

"Finding any game at this point is nothing short of a miracle. People have resorted to... horrible means to survive." Meera interjected.

"By what means do you speak of?" asked Arya. The Reed siblings exchange glances.

"People have resorted to cannibalism," answered Meera.

"Much has happened in these last ten years," rasped the lord Reed. "Food ran out rather quickly and game ran out soon after. Nowadays only the rare bird flies by. Eventually, Essos cut off their contact from the harbors of Westeros, fearing for themselves. People fled south, those that could anyhow. The people that could not travel took their chances north by barricading themselves in their homes. Some even tried to fight the dead, but always lost in the end, always overcome by the Night's king and his forces. So much time wasted squabbling amongst ourselves. If we had chosen to work with one another, we might've had a damn chance against all this. If we had proper warning, but then again we had our warning. Your house words," Lord Reed reminded. "'Winter is coming' and indeed it came. It came for us all and none of us were ready. We ignored the warning and all the signs. Now the gods themselves have forsaken us all. It all went to hell when Ned died. I miss him dearly."

The reminder of their dearly departed father re-opened the scar the Starks suffered from losing him.

"He was one of a kind, he was. All that's left of him now are you, his children." Lord Reed whispered. "Perhaps you are the key to ending all this. There are many stories that have been told among the people remaining. Stories of how the Starks have damned the world with winter as vengeance. And there are stories of how the Starks are meant to save us from this winter, by bringing the dawn. There is also a tale of another savior, Daenerys Targaryen. She is the princess who was exiled with her brother across the Narrow Sea. Viserys has since fallen, only Daenerys remained. She came to Westeros with an army of slaves and savages, with her advisors. Even dragons were said to be in her midst. Alas, nothing other than rumors of her arrival has been told in the lands of Westeros. It was said to have happened just as winter began. There is a hope that Daenerys will emerge with her dragons and free us from the Night King's wrath. Find her Stark children, find her in the hopes of bringing back the dawn to us stuck in the Long Night. With you lot and the Targaryen together, I know it can be done. Save us, save us all from this cold hell. I beg you Starks," Howland feebly tried to raise his head, to get a good look at his would-be saviors. He noted Jon among the Stark clan. He extended a frail arm towards the young Snow.

Lord Howland Reed breathed a shaky breath, weaker than the ones before it. "You there. Come closer to me." Hesitantly, Jon came forward to the dying lord. Lord Reed saw the dark curls framing his face and the face. The face that reminded him of her…

"You're the one known as Jon Snow," Howland stated. "Yes I am," confirmed Jon, used to others bringing up his lowly status.

"He never told you about your mother did he?" Lord Reed whispered. That got Jon's attention, as it did his Stark siblings. "You-you know my mother?"

"Aye, I knew her. You look very much like she used to..."

Jon got closer to the Lord now, desperate to hear this old man's confession. "Don't fault Ned. He was at the end of his rope. He did not know what else to do with you. You were his kin and an innocent babe at that. What else could he do but take you in..." Howland's breath began to fail him, he struggled to take in gasps of air.

"Father, you mustn't force yourself," Meera pleaded.

"No Meera," the dying Lord insisted, chest heaving, "This is important. The boy must know who he truly is."

Who he truly was? But who could Jon be other than a bastard of the honorable Eddard Stark? The next time I see you, I'll tell you about your mother. Lord Stark had promised him, his final words to his bastard boy, a promise that would never be fulfilled by the former Lord of Winterfell. However, it seemed the Lord of Greywater Watch was intent on telling him what his own father could not. Jon did not want to pressure the elder man, but now the truth was within his grasp. He did not wish for it to slip through his fingers, not again.

"She was a fierce young thing. Honorable like her brothers, and brave too. Nay, braver, than them for they were men and she was a woman. I always admired her courage." Howland wheezed out.

"My mother, is she alive?" Jon dared to ask.

"No. She died the day you were born." Jon was crestfallen, though he should have expected as much. Still he pressed on, "Then tell me my lord, what was her name?"

"Her name," Lord Howland attempted to say, "was-ah!" He cried out, clutching at his chest, right above where his heart was. His eyes bulged out of his head. His children ran to him, trying to calm him down.

"Where's the maester?" asked Robb.

"Dead," answered Jojen curtly. "He was one of the first."

"Father?" Meera called out to her father. But he could hear her no longer. Lord Reed's eyes were still and stared off into the ceiling. Jojen went to his father's corpse and shut his open eyes for the last time.

"I'm sorry," Robb said. Jon was guilt-ridden and felt responsible for pushing the old man too far.

"It would have happened sooner or later," Jojen began to say.

"No!" Meera rounded on the Starks, outraged. "We should have never brought them here." She stared at them accusingly. "They're likely to blame for all of it!"

"What are you on about?" questioned Rickon defensively.

"Take a look around! It's no coincidence that this all began after your exile beyond the Wall. Then the Wall falls, the North is scattered and fallen to winter, with the South not far behind. They always said a Stark must always be in Winterfell and now we know why." the Lady Reed scoffed. "It wasn't just the Night King and his men causing havoc among the North. There was a group of six ravaging the lands. Tearing apart the places the army of the dead left behind. Sometimes even attacking places that the Night King hadn't even found yet. They were the ones who killed off all the Freys. They're the ones who finished off the Boltons and the Lannisters. A group of two women and four men. Who else could it be other than you?"

"But we wouldn't-"

"Oh no? After everything those people put you through, after no one came to you or your father's defense? I saw you. Six years ago, you passed through these lands. You were unstoppable. You killed who you wished, when you wished. All of it on your whims. You'd kill thieves and rapers just as soon as you'd slaughter the innocent. It made no difference to you."

"That's enough Meera." Jojen spoke. "They do not remember their past actions. Not after what the Red Priests did to them."

"What do you mean?" Meera asked curtly.

"Five years ago, the Starks were sought out by the Red Priests of Asshai." Jojen explained. "They wished to vanquish you in hopes of weakening the Night King's forces and end winter. Obviously it failed, as winter is still here upon Westeros and killing us all."

"How do you know all this? You speak as if you've seen it yourself," Arya noted.

"I did see it, or did you forget what I told you earlier? I have greensight. I can see certain glimpses of the past and future." Jojen reminded them.

"How can you be so casual, our father's just passed!" exclaimed Meera.

"Mourning him won't save us any faster. There are more important things to be done, for the realm, for Westeros. Whatever the Starks were before, its changed now." Jojen turned to face the Starks directly. "Your banishment to beyond the wall, it changed you all. Meera was right about you, I have seen your handiwork firsthand. You were ferocious. You served the Night's king, slaughtering hundreds. This much is clear: you're not human anymore. No man or woman can survive such harsh conditions of winter without sustenance or rest. Whatever the Night's King has done to you, it makes you different from man."

"Different from man?" Rickon repeated.

"When was the last time you've eaten something? Do you ever feel tired or pain? Does the cold bother you at all?" Jojen asked of the Starks. "It must given how lightly you're dressed."

It was something the Starks neglected to discuss one another. They continued trekking along Westeros without bringing up the fact that since they awoke down in the Winterfell crypts not one of them had consumed any food. The strange phenomenon though it was, the harsh, extreme temperature of winter affected none of the Starks like ordinary folk. Ice in their veins indeed, as they never fell ill from the cold as others have. When the winds blew, they never shivered. Despite the scarce resources, one would assume they'd need to eat something. The Starks hadn't even had so much as a cup of water. Furthermore, the lack of food was no inconvenience as none of the Starks felt hunger either. Not one of them brought up the subject, as they were focused on acquiring an explanation for ending up buried in their home. However, they were all disturbed by how different circumstances were; for Westeros and for themselves.

While they rested in the dark, it was only because of the lack of visibility among the land. Not a single Stark ever felt tired. They have yet to have a violent confrontation, so the matter of feeling pain has been unexplored. However it was likely that it would be the same as it was for mortal men. It would explain to Jon why that creature of ice was so gleeful at the opportunity to come upon the Starks of Winterfell. It seemed the aim of this Night's king was to amass a force that had never been witnessed in all the realm. But for what purpose? Was it revenge for the Stark family like commoners said? Or was it a more sinister purpose?

"After the Red Priests you were transformed once more. Now you are at a crossroads. You can live for yourselves or you can aid Westeros and set us free from this miserable winter. We cannot force you to choose your path, but it is my hope that you choose what is right. and soon you must decide. She is waiting for you; Daenerys Targaryen. None can help her but you."

"You cannot be serious," spoke Sansa, incredulous. "You expect us to go on a quest to save an exiled princess who may or may not be in King's Landing? Her family killed our uncle and grandfather."

"You would ignore a woman who is in need? Would you punish someone for crimes that were not committed by their own hand? Tell me, isn't the survival of man more important than your pride?"

"We should return to Winterfell, we can live out our days there," urged Sansa.

"And let everyone else suffer?" said Jon. "We should try to help people. Our father would have!"

"Our father got his head chopped off!" Sansa argued.

"Joffrey got his head chopped off," said Arya bitterly.

"What happened to Joffrey anyhow?" asked Bran.

"Dead," answered Jojen.

"What?" The Starks were taken aback by the news, especially Sansa. They were unsure of how to feel at the sudden news of the bastard king's demise. Joffrey was after all the one who ordered their father's execution under false charges.

"Along with his siblings. Tywin Lannister died too. All the Lannisters did."

"Even Cersei and Jaime Lannister?" asked Robb.

"It is said that you lot killed them," explained Jojen, gesturing towards the Starks. The young wolves were astounded to hear that the Lannister family was extinct. The Lions of the West seemed unbeatable between their ruthlessness and money and means. It seems all the power and cunning in the world could not spare the royal family from death.

"What about Tyrion?" asked Jon.

"No one has heard anything about the dwarf for a few years now," Jojen replied.

"What about the Boltons?"

"Dead too."

"And the Freys?" asked Arya.

"Dead as well." Not one but three houses that were bitter enemies of the Starks. All of them dead, ruined and gone. Erased from the realm and existence along with their legacies. It was remarkable in the most terrible of ways.

"By the gods, all our enemies are dead," exclaimed Robb. It could not be a coincidence. Perhaps that was what Lady Meera was getting at.

"All the more reason to go home," Sansa urged.

"I will not in good conscience leave people to freeze. There are families out there who are dying. Look at the terrible odds men are stuck with this winter. If we do nothing, then all will die before long."

"Maybe they should," Sansa said quietly. Meera's eyes narrowed at the comment.

"It's not our problem," Arya added.

"How can you be so cold?" asked Jon, incredulous.

"When we were the ones in danger, no one bothered to help us. We froze to death out there in the frozen North and nobody gave a damn! So fuck everyone else!" shouted Sansa. Arya did a double-take at her polite sister's swearing.

"Fine then, go," Jon said. "I'll go south, alone if I must."

"And what do you plan to do? Kill this supposed Night's King all by yourself?"

"Aye, if that's what it takes."

"No," interjected Jojen. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," The words of the Starks' late father sent chills down their spine. "The six of you must go."

"Get out," bit out Meera.

"Why should we?" asked Arya.

"You got your information and I don't want you in my home, so leave us now."

"All due respect, but we have more questions than answers," Bran interjected.

"You'll get no more here. You've frightened the others enough with your presence alone." Meera demanded.

"Frightened?"

Meera sneered bitterly. "Your name used to mean something. It stood for honor and justice. Now the name Stark strikes terror into the hearts of men, because of the things you've done. Things you've shown people what you're capable of doing."

"We'll leave," Robb relented, signaling to the others that they would be taking their leave. Turning back, he said, "We really are sorry for your loss. We know what it is like to live without a father in this world."

"I thank you for your condolences. Rest assured we will meet again Starks. For now, however, you must go on," said Jojen. "Go forth on your quest."

* * *

**Next on the Stark Winter, the quest to find Daenerys Targaryen!**


	5. The Search for the Last Dragon

"He had blue skin that looked like ice, with the coldest blue eyes I've ever seen. Icicle-like thorns poked out of his head," Jon informed his siblings while describing the Night's king. The Starks left Greywater Watch some hours ago.

"And he just snapped your neck?" asked Bran.

"Aye," Jon could still remember the cold, hard hand squeezing his neck. "He did."

"What could have happened to us after that?" Rickon pondered out loud.

"Who knows?" Jon sighed. "What is it, brother?" Robb asked.

"Howland Reed may have very well been the last person who could have told me about my mother," Jon said morosely.

"I'm sorry, Jon," Robb said, placing a firm grip on his brother's shoulder to comfort him.

"There may be another way," piped up Bran. "Also, to figure out what happened to us from the time we don't remember."

"What do you mean, Bran?" asked Sansa.

"Jojen said to me all we had to do to see like him was to look within ourselves."

"Bran-"

"I think it's real. It would certainly explain some of the dreams I had before."

"Like what?"

"I used to have strange dreams back when I had Summer with me," Bran revealed. "Jojen said something about having the eyes of a wolf. He said if I could see through a wolf, I could end up flying through time."

"That's just -"

"I know you don't believe Sansa, but I do," Bran was adamant. "I cannot have been the only one who had the dreams."

"What dreams?"

"The wolf dreams. Sometimes I became Summer, running around and hunting."

"I had those too," Rickon confessed.

"Don't entertain him," Sansa scolded.

"I'm being honest!" Rickon insisted.

"I had them too," Arya said. Sansa huffed in vexation, while all four younger siblings looked to their elder ones. Jon and Robb exchanged glances as if mentally agreeing on something together. "Aye, I had those dreams," Robb divulged, as did Jon. "As did I." Everyone looked expectantly at Sansa.

"Alright, I had those stupid dreams too!" Sansa admitted. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Those direwolves weren't just our pets. They were more to us. We were bonded to them. To the soul," Bran asserted.

"Skinchanging," Jon said.

"What?"

"Beyond the Wall, the wildings would call them skinchangers. I suppose that what we are, or rather, what we were," before the Night's king took us, was the part Jon left unsaid.

"I remember the stories Old Nan would tell us about people like that,"

"And what of this quest to find Daenerys Targaryen?" Sansa asked. "We do not know where she is? If she is even still alive? Those rumors of her supposed return could be only that, rumors! At best!" The ginger woman exclaimed.

"The only way to be sure is to go to King's Landing and see for ourselves," Robb told her.

"We don't owe anyone anything," Sansa said.

"If it were us in danger-"

"Then we would die, the world proved that much the first time," Sansa reminded her siblings in a resentful tone.

"And that means we have to be as bad as everyone else?"

"Perhaps," Arya said.

"And since when do you agree with your sister?" Jon questioned his little sister.

"When the Seven Hells themselves froze over like everything else in this country," Arya replied. "I only mean to say that maybe we shouldn't be so nice anymore. At least not to those that do not deserve it."

"Apparently, we haven't been very nice to anyone at all these last few years," Robb commented. "According to tales told by the people of Westeros, we have been the very antithesis of nice."

"Those are only rumors. Half the time, they're only tall tales told by drunken sailors and the like." Sansa pointed out. "Just like it could be in the matter of Daenerys Targaryen."

"I'm with Jon," Rickon spoke up, walking over to stand by his two eldest brothers. "As am I," Bran said, repeating his younger brother's action. Arya sighed and relented, turning to her older sister. "If we do not go with them, they will likely do something incredibly stupid." But what Arya really meant was let's not part again, we were torn apart long enough in death. Let us stick together in life. That much was expressed in her big grey eyes. It forced her older sister's hand.

Sansa sucked her teeth, crossing her arms. "Fine. But when we find nothing in that dreadful city, I'll be waiting to be told I was right." She walked ahead of her brothers, upturning her nose at them, in the direction of the famed capital.

In the distance, the outline of the Twins could be seen along the road. Robb Stark stood, observing the stronghold.

"What is it, Robb?" Sansa asked of her brother.

"I want to go there," Robb said absentmindedly.

"To where?" Sansa followed his line of sight. "The Twins? Are you mad?"

"With what we heard from the Reeds about the past, this is one way to verify what's happened."

As the Starks approached the Frey home, they were cautious about walking in the area. They stood behind large snow-covered bushes to observe. It was a desolate area.

"No one's around, and it awfully quiet. The snow on the ground hasn't been touched either. So no one's been outside. Jon and I will go in together first, and the rest of you wait here." Robb told the others.

"What?"

"Out of the question-"

"I'm serious," Robb told his younger siblings, "on the off chance there is someone in there who means us harm, I want you safe and hidden. We won't take long."

"And if no one is there?" asked Arya.

"Then we'll come back for you right away," Robb responded. "Don't attract attention to yourselves."

The eldest brothers went off, sneaking into the Twins. All remained quiet for a time, and then the sky began to darken. Arya wanted to go on, but Sansa wished to stay and wait for their brothers. Bran and Rickon were torn.

"They're taking too long. I'm going after them," Arya got up to proceed into the castle.

Sansa grabbed her arm. "You cannot just go after them."

"And why not? They might need help."

"We do not know what they need help with," Sansa countered.

"All the more reason to go after them," Arya said in turn.

"Arya's right, Jon and Robb need us," Rickon got up as well. "Let's go." Bran nodded.

The three younger Starks got up in turn, running ahead. They stopped and looked back at their older sister, waiting.

"Oh, alright, fine!" Sansa shouted, getting up in irritation. The four of them went forward into the solemn stronghold, following the footprints their brothers left behind on the way inside. The castle was quiet as silence echoed through the empty halls. It unnerved the Starks as their brothers were inside, and yet no evidence confirmed that fact. A doorway was already open to their right, and when they reached it and looked within the room, all four Starks were horrified at the sight before them.

Slaughter would have been an understatement. The body count in the room alone was over two hundred, with a small hill of bones was amassed in one corner of the hall, and dozens more lay upon the tables. Three dozen skeletons hung from the ceiling as the Starks took care to navigate all around them and not knock into a single bone. At the front of the great hall were another three dozen bodies, some small and some large. At the center was a partially rotted corpse, with its head gone, but one human crown was placed before it on the dust riddled table. The dismembered head had grey hair that had nearly fallen off, and the eyes were gone. The skin was almost black and sunken in. The lips were gone, and only the teeth showed, baring out of the head.

"It's Walder Frey," the voice of Robb echoed throughout the room. He and Jon were sitting down against one of the walls to the left.

"How can you tell?" Sansa asked her brother as the others were unable to look away from all the bodies. Sansa herself couldn't tear her gaze apart from the head before her.

"His clothes and the skin match. He's the oldest person-corpse in the room," explained Jon. The clothes Old Walder had on rotted along with his remains.

"Who could have done this?"

"It was us," Robb answered.

"What?"

"I got a glimpse of memory from being here once before," Robb confessed. "It's part of the reason why I wanted to get in here. We butchered them all, every last person who's rotted away here."

"I can't believe this," Sansa said, sitting down next to her older brothers. She and the others took another look at all the bodies scattered around. The younger three continued looking over the devastation.

"What triggered your memory?" asked Arya.

Robb nodded toward the decapitated head of Walder Frey. "Him. I remember chopping off his head. I remember how warm his blood was and feeling his terror. I...I loved it. I enjoyed ending his existence. I relished in the face we destroyed another house. An entire bloodline, a family wiped from the face of this earth and because we were responsible." The eldest Stark curled on in himself.

"They weren't good people." Arya reminded.

"Maybe so, but that doesn't justify manslaughter. Look around you," Jon gestured toward the bodies.

"What I see is people who died and who deserved it."

"Really?" Jon got up and strode forward towards the high table at the front of the great hall. He pointed to the small skeletons. "These were children. Did they deserve to die, to be murdered? Because I believe they deserved it as much as we did."

Arya looked down, as did Sansa and the younger two Stark boys.

"I remember the girl you used to be Arya. You wanted to go on adventures. You yearned for the freedom to choose your own path, willful, and wild as you are. Is this what you would have done with your freedom? Perpetuate the cycle of violence that has torn this country apart? Orphan children and widow spouses? Spread further hate and anger across the realm?"

"And Bran, you were always so happy. Full of laughter. And you too, Rickon. And Sansa, all you wanted was to find your prince."

"No! But I'm not sorry they're dead. I'm not like you, Jon, I can't forget what happened to us."

"And you think I have?" Jon turned away, facing away from his family. "By my life, I will never forget that."

"Then why do you want to help these people? None of them deserve it. This world is twisted and evil. It may be a wicked thing to say, but maybe Westeros got what it deserved."

"I want to go home," Sansa said, wishing to stop the argument.

"Sansa, why do you want to go home? There was a time when you couldn't wait to leave Winterfell behind."

"Because it's been terrible since we left home! I don't ever want to leave! When we left, we lost our parents and our home! We died out in the wilderness beyond the Wall! Maybe this is why a Stark must always be in Winterfell and why the pack survives, and the lone wolf dies because when we left, we lost everything. I just want us to stay together."

"We were happy when it was just us, the six of us. Remember Jon, when the summer snows would fall, and we'd run at first light and play all day. And then we'd go back inside the castle and have those kidney pies that Old Nan made for us and curl by the hearth, listening to her stories and falling asleep. That was the one time I remember when life was perfect. Everything else was a threat to that. Growing up, getting married off, fulfilling our duties in the name of House Stark. I'd sell my soul for that happiness, Jon. When we were freezing to death out in that frozen cave, that is what I was picturing. Trying to remind myself, my body what lying down next to fire felt like, and if I could imagine, if I could remember well enough, I could feel warmth again."

"There are other families in the world. Families full of siblings, like us. People who do not deserve freeze like we did. People who are mere casualties," Jon said. "What we were put through was unforgivable. It's something that I would not upon my worst enemy. That slow, agonizing death. The people of Westeros are going through that now because there's nothing to eat, and everywhere is cold. Remember how it felt," Jon pleaded. "To feel yourself freeze and die and cease to live on this earth. And then look me in the eye and tell me that every single person in Westeros deserves this."

Robb got up. "There are bad and good people in this world. But it's not about that. And yes, we killed people who've rotted away in this castle that became a tomb. And we've probably killed others we don't remember. But it's not about that either; the world is dying, and people are struggling to survive. And we have the means to help them, I know we do. We can save these people who, by some miracle, are still alive, still fighting to see summer again. Because if winter goes on, no one will be left. Humanity will have died out, at least on Westeros. And that would mean the Night's king wins. Each person dies is a triumph, a victory for him. He's taken enough. He's not that different from Tywin Lannister or Roose Bolton or Walder Frey. They were all men who took from others, from those who couldn't fight back. And our father was different. He gave people the benefit of the doubt, he gave people chances. He judged for the actions and character of a man. Whether the people of Westeros are bad or good isn't for us to decide. All we can do is what we have the power to do. Take a good look at these people. Sure, they didn't freeze like us, but they died. And I know when we were dying, all I could do was pray and hope that someone would come for us and save us from death. No one came for us, but we can still go to the people who need to be saved. We are likely to be the only ones left who can."

Bran spoke, "I haven't lived a long life, and I didn't know Father as long as some of you," regarding his older siblings, "But in the time I did know him, he always did right by people, even the ones who didn't deserve it. And that's who I want to be. We should help the people of Westeros because he would."

Robb smiled and nodded at his younger brother, "Well said, brother."

"Our father was good, and we should be good," Rickon said. "Let's help people. But we should do it together." Rickon went to his sisters. "Please, I want us to stay together too. But I also want us to do right by people like Father did."

Arya crouched down and looked at one of the smaller corpses resting against the table.

"Even if we wanted to help the people left, regardless of whether they're worthy: how are we supposed to stop this powerful, evil being that can awaken the dead and do his bidding?"

"Daenerys Targaryen. She may be able to help us; she had three dragons." Bran brought up.

"We don't know where she is," Sansa repeated from their conversation at Greywater Watch.

"Yes, we do. The dragon princess is in King's Landing," Rickon said.

"We don't know that for sure," Arya reasoned.

"The only way to know is to go see for ourselves," Robb replied with further resolve.

"King's Landing is enormous. We'd be searching for ages," Sansa stated.

"We have time," Robb said.

"And what if the Night's King is there?" asked Sansa.

"So now you believe in him?" Bran asked in a cheeky tone.

Sansa ignored her brother. "What if he's there with his dead army?"

"Apparently we were his soldiers too. There's a good chance we can get through King's Landing unscathed if we go about it right. We may be the only ones who can."

"So, King's Landing?"

"Aye,"

"Alright then," the little she-wolf relented. "We'll play your hero's game. But when we die again, don't say I didn't warn you of the outcome." Getting up on her feet, Arya marched forward to the exit.

"We don't even know if we can be killed," Robb shouted after his sister. Arya stopped and looked back at her brother.

"Anyone can be killed."

A group of squatters slept inside an empty castle, formerly known as Riverrun. The former owners died some time ago, starving and sick as some of the few remaining stray Lannisters that remained. The Tullys never got the chance to reclaim their stolen homeland. The decomposed corpses were burned. Nothing had been dusted in years, and a musty smell permeated throughout the space. But it did not matter; the guests were grateful enough for spacious shelter from the winter storms that were raging on outside. Once a fire was lit, and what little could be scavenged was in their bellies, the group of people began to settle down. They all sat close to the embers, trying to soak up the warmth and forget how hungry they all were.

"When is this gonna fuckin' end?" a younger person among the group asked desperately. The past decade made circumstances dire for everyone in Westeros. The group was initially one of a hundred. A quarter of them broke off from the rest of the group, stealing what little supplies were among the group. Multiple were attacked and killed by men and wights alike. A majority starved to death and succumbed to illness. Now only fifteen remained. The cold was inescapable and relentless.

"They call this one the Stark Winter," a man spoke. He was the de facto leader of the few remaining survivors of this endless season. The man went by the name Bill.

"Why's that?" asked a child. His cheekbones were ever so present due to the lack of food his body was cursed with suffering. The little boy went by the name Barty.

"The way the story's been told, there was this family once, one of the high born folks. The Starks of Winterfell. The lord there had six children of his own. One of 'em was a bastard, low born like us."

"What happened to them?"

"What happens to high-borns sometimes they get killed, they die out." Bill, the leader, explained. "This time, the lord turned traitor against the king, and his children were sent away to live beyond the wall to freeze."

"Did they?" another child asked. Her eyes popped out of her head due to her emaciated appearance. She had never known what it was to have a full stomach. None of the children did. If the adults were honest, they could count the times they had properly feasted on one hand. This is for the ones who still had fingers that didn't fall off due to frostbite. The little girl went by the name, Ally.

"Who bloody well knows what went on up there? All I know is the others took 'em, made them their own. The Night's King took revenge, and winter began. The wall was broken, and the North froze, and the cold came down south and started to kill us off, with dead men and storms so strong they bring castles down." The young ones of the group felt terror in their hearts, for they knew well enough the man's words were real. Everywhere they went, only death remained, lingering along with silence and cold. There were fewer people as time went on.

"Why would the Night King take revenge?" asked the children.

"He and the Starks were related, I reckon," the man told them. "They's connected somehow, through magic. Has to be something like that."

"I heard the Night's King was a Stark," said one of the few women among the group. "From before."

"I heard he was a member of the Night's watch centuries ago," said another woman. "And that he ran off with a woman of ice."

"Maybe they made a blood oath, like some type of deal," another member of the group proposed.

"I reckon we'll never know. I heard the Starks are dead again," Bill said.

"For good?" one of the children asked.

"I hope so," he replied.

"I saw 'em once." a woman spoke up. She was usually a quiet woman. She didn't look any worse off than the others, but something about the look in her eyes was different. It was as if a terrifying experience had shocked her so badly it made her look permanently careworn. The woman was known as Sheila.

"Oh, did ya?" the man his attention to her, as did the others gathered around the fire.

"Yes," she spoke quietly. "Seven years ago, when they came for House Frey. I felt no love for that old man, but they made him and his family suffer. They killed everyone there. Every single Frey. They took their time with them Freys. They played with them. I worked in the kitchens in the Twins," she explained. "I was serving food at one of their feasts. And the Starks burst through the doors. Their eyes were so blue, like ice."

"How'd you get away?"

"They didn't even see me," she answered. "They ignored me. Like they couldn't be bothered with killing me. I was nothin' to them. Let all the servants live so we can spread the stories around about how fuckin' terrifyin' they are. I mean, the Freys was unpleasant people to be sure, but they didn't have to go like that."

"How bad was it?" one of the children asked against their better judgment.

"Awful," Shiela could still smell the rotting flesh of the giant beasts that slaughtered countless Freys. She would never forget the chilling blueness of the Starks' eyes. Burning with hatred and devoid of mercy. "By my life, I'll never forget the sight of 'em."

"Well, it's a good thing they're gone now," Bill remarked.

"As far as we know," Sheila said in response. "They was powerful, they was."

"You said the Freys was bad," Barty addressed the woman.

"Lord Walder was the worst," the servant woman said.

"And they killed the Lannisters and the Boltons?"

"Aye, seems to be so."

"And they were bad?"

"More or less, certainly ain't give a damn about us common folk."

"So does that mean the Starks only kill bad people?" the child asked. The other children looked to the adults for an answer expectantly.

The de facto leader and former servant woman exchanged glances.

"Sure, seems that way," Bill told them.

"Or just the ones who get in their way," Sheila added.

"Besides, we got the undead to deal with," Bill pointed out. "Still running around these parts." The wights do not kill as often these days, as the population of Westeros has decreased over the years. A massive spike in deaths arose in the first few years but steadily continued over the remaining years in the decade of winter. Nonetheless, people still had to be careful. One false step and a wight would be on a living person in seconds, tearing the hapless soul apart straight away.

A clatter was heard over by the doors leading outside. Everyone stilled at the sound. "It could just be a rat," Bill told the others. Another clatter. "Or one of the dead," he said grimly, pulling out a dagger. "Get ready," he said to the others.

The doors were forced open. The creak of the doors echoed throughout the castle. The group waited with bated breath to see what they would encounter in mere moments. Voices were heard, slowly getting louder as the strangers were getting closer. Bill sneaked over to a hidden area in hopes of an ambush to give the group a fair chance. Footsteps were heard now, near the entrance of the main hall where the group of survivors waited in dread.

A foot made a step in the doorway of the great hall, one of the men shot a bow at it. The shuffle of feet was heard as everyone scrambled. An ax was thrown across at the bowman, who dodged the attack.

"Hang on!" a young man's voice was heard, not belonging to any member of the survivors. He was new, among strangers who intruded. "We did not come to fight!"

It seemed the young one was a member of his own group. Who knows what they were capable of. Bill and his group have had their fair share of encounters with other people. The more time passed, the more barbaric each group was. It was hard to tell the wildings apart from the citizens of Westeros these days. Everyone was quick to kill, rape, and steal.

"Of course, you came to take from us, dead or alive!" Bill yelled across the room.

"Please, we were not aware that others were in this castle!"

"Where else would we bloody well be?"

"We do not wish to harm you or steal from you. By the gods, we will not hurt you!"

"Fuck the gods, they could give a shit about us!"

This time a girl tumbled through, petite in size but bold. She brandished a sword, and along with her came two men, one with dark curls who bore a resemblance to her with the same grey eyes. The other was slightly taller than the curly-haired man, with auburn locks and blue eyes. Then came three others; a tall red-headed woman and two skinny and tallboys who all had the auburn-haired man's bearing.

"Enough of this," the short girl spoke. "We're not here to kill anyone, you do not believe us that's on you!"

The group of squatters was agape in terror as they recognized the six strangers who stumbled upon the former castle of Riverrun. The children were crying, and the adults fell to their knees.

"It-it's the Starks!" one of the women exclaimed in horror. "Please spare us! We did not mean disrespect!" she pleaded. An older man among the group of squatters was having a hard time breathing.

"Easy," Robb held out a hand to appease. "We are not here to anyone. We're looking for our kin. Our mother's family lived here. Catelyn Stark, Catelyn Tully. We wish to know where they are and how they've fared in these many years of winter."

The adults among the group panicked, as they suspected the news of the Tullys' fate would not allay the Starks. "We-we do not know." Another woman answered.

"What do you mean, you do not know? You're living in their home!" Arya shouted.

"Arya!" Sansa scolded. "Do not shout at them, can't you see how terrified they are of us already?"

"Well, they should be, squatting somewhere they have no business being in. This was our mother's home. What did you do to them?" Arya demanded.

"We don't know honest! It was Lannister men we found here, all dead. Dead for years! There was no one else, we checked everywhere." Bill answered them.

"We didn't steal nothing either, honest. We swear!"

Sheila among the group stood, looking at the Starks, recalling the time she saw them at the Twins all those years ago. The servant woman remembered their bloodlust, rage, and cruelty. How feral they were, how powerful, how they killed all those Freys without an ounce of mercy. How emotionless their chilling blue eyes were.

"I do not know what sorcery you have up your sleeve that made your eyes chance," she spoke against her better judgment. "But you can't fool me. I don't care how nice you pretend to be."

"Sheila!" Bill said.

"Excuse me?" Sansa said.

"I remember you, Starks. I was there at the Twins when you killed all of them Freys. It went on for two days. I remember sitting under one of the tables in the great hall where you killed most of them. I remember how they screamed and begged for their lives. But you didn't care. On and on, you went about what you lost, what was taken from ya. I know you don't remember me; you didn't even see me then. I was nothin' to ya. Just some commoner. I'm not gonna lie, I'm as scared now as I was then. But fuck it, I'm not long this world anyway. None of us are. And it's because of you." Sheila finished bitterly pointed a skinny finger at the Starks.

"We'll go and leave this place." Bill offered.

"What about outside?" one of the children asked.

"We can go over to Stone Hedge and stay there for a bit. Nothing we haven't done before." Bill said. "Let's go." The group cautiously made their way out of the castle's great hall. Sheila held her gaze with Robb Stark.

The elderly man who had trouble breathing earlier cried out, clutching at his chest as he couldn't tear his eyes away from the terrors of the North.

"Is he dead?" asked Rickon as the old man lay still and not breathing. Jon checked the body. "Aye," he confirmed. "He is."

"He died from fear of us," Robb noted.

"We scared him to death?" asked Arya. "Seven hells."

"The look in his eyes, he was completely petrified," Sansa observed with horror.

"They knelt to us out of fear too," Bran observed, "as if not doing so would be disrespectful, and they were afraid of what we'd do if we were offended."

"And ran off the first chance they took," Arya added.

"Did you see how thin they all were? It looked like half of them were about to snap into pieces like twigs," Sansa said in pity. One could only imagine what the group of survivors had done to survive the last decade of winter.

"Let's move on," Jon urged. "We still have a long journey ahead before we reach the crown lands.

It took well over three fortnights to reach the crown lands. Crossing east and passing through castles like Darry, inns, and villages, it was more of the same. A majority of the time, most homes and strongholds were vacant and had been for years. When the Starks did run into people, the people would seize up in fear and blubber out nonsense, yearning to abandon their presence before the Starks of Winterfell. Their terrifying reputation preceded them wherever they went.

The Starks finally arrived upon the city of King's Landing. They stood before the Gate of the Gods. It was a little worse for wear, but more or less still standing. The seven faces on the wall stood out among the stones, the ice and snow. A wind blew through the air, making the only sound heard in the vicinity.

"I'll try to scale the wall," Bran offered, already making his way to try to navigate the castle gate.

"No," Robb said. "You shouldn't go alone. Let's try to find another way in."

They went to the east, towards the Old Gate of the city. They found the gate partly broken as if some giant ran clean through it. Quite a few of the stones looked burnt like fire ate away at the fortifications. Still, the city was quiet as if the capital was deserted. Quickly, the Starks made their way through the broken gate and proceeded up one of the famed hills of the King's Landing. There were ruins that lived upon the hill but dated long before the city's demise. "Is this the famous Dragonpit of the city?" asked Bran. He took in the remains of the dome above their heads as the Starks walked through the pit.

"Yes, I believe it is," confirmed Jon. "Watch your step, these are ruins after all." The six of them made their way across the Dragonpit and reached the other side of the hill. Overlooking the city, the Starks got an extensive view of the town. And what they saw below was daunting.

Dead people, as far as the eye could see, lumbering around mindlessly in every visible spot of King's Landing. The streets, the roofs of buildings, stairs, all of it. The movement of the dead resembled waves, and the large mass of the group, along with the dark colors of them, resembled a treacherous sea, teeming with great danger and terrible force. It was by far the most significant force Westeros had ever seen.

"By the gods," whispered Robb in a mixture of shock and horror.

"We cannot go further if they attack us, then we'll die for sure," Sansa said, fearful. She hoped now finally her family would see reason and return to Winterfell. Just then, all the wights ceased movement. Slowly, all the heads of all the dead turned their gazes to the Starks who were on the hill. They froze, panicking, and expected to be attacked and overrun in moments. Yet, the moment never came. Time stood still as the dead looked upon the Starks, and the siblings waited for the worst befall them.

"I don't think they're going to attack us," Robb whispered to his siblings. Gingerly, he took a step forward. Then another and a few more. He made his way down the hill. At the foot of the hill, the nearest wights moved away from Robb, noiselessly clearing a path for him to walk through, all staring ahead at nothing now. The other Starks joined Robb and made their way through the streets of King's Landing. They journeyed towards the Red Keep, where they hoped to find Daenerys Targaryen. As the Starks walked around the city, they saw the damage done to some of the buildings from the time the dead overran the capital years prior. No lying corpses, however, as it appeared that all who died in King's Landing were reanimated after perishing. The dead varied in appearance. Some were peasants, some were merchants, some were knights and soldiers, and some were clearly foreign; the Unsullied and Dothraki, which the Starks took note of. It seems the rumors of the Dragon Queen's return rang true. But where was Daenerys?

The last of the wights stood aside, leading to the entrance of the Red Keep. Inside, the castle was as desolate as the rest of Westeros now. Cobwebs covered the unlit torches and ornaments. Dust lay on the ground, and every step the Starks took further echoed across the vast, empty walls. It did not take long to reach the Throne Room. The doors leading to it were already open.

Part of the ceiling was missing. A large hole above allowed bits of snow to pile into the room over the years. Wind blared overhead while the cold light of the outside made the room all the darker and quiet. The windows that remained had bits of stained glass missing, possibly blown away from some force long ago. As the Starks wandered into the Throne Room, some of their footsteps crunched into the snow below their feet. At the very end of the room was once the most sought after chair in all Seven Kingdoms, the Iron Throne. The black monstrosity blended so well with the dark, it took the Starks to be more feet from the piece to witness the ThroneThrone in all its infamous glory. It stood tall on its platform, imposing, the merged swords poking out of it in all directions.

"It's smaller than I thought it would be," Rickon said aloud.

"Alright," Robb clasped his hands together, facing his siblings. "We should split up to cover more ground to find the Targaryen. I'll take the girls with me, you stay with these two," gesturing to Bran and Rickon. 'We all meet here once again in an hour, agreed?" Jon nodded in agreement.

Before Robb and his sisters went off to explore more of the Keep, he asked Jon, "Did you see him?"

"Who?"

"You know," referring to the Night's king. Jon shook his head. Robb grimaced. "I figured as much." He spoke to his other brothers. "Be careful and keep your eyes peeled." Both young brothers nodded. "See you soon."

"Where should we begin?" Rickon asked Bran and Jon. Jon was about to answer until he heard a faint sound that wasn't the wisps of the wind. It almost sounded like a cry.

"Jon?" Bran, seeing his brother was distracted.

Jon turned to the direction of the Iron Throne. He heard it again, more pronounced. Strange enough, it was as though the noise echoed within his head. It was definitely the sound of a woman crying. His feet moved forward, but he wasn't walking to the ThroneThrone. He was walking around it, going behind it. And behind the ThroneThrone was something concealed from human eyes for these many years as none dared venture to King's Landing after the attack of the dead years ago.

It was a container that bore a resemblance to a coffin, but was transparent and revealed the person trapped inside. She had the visage of a young woman, whose expression seemed like she was mildly in pain. Her hands were clasped together, resting just under her bosom, and her eyes were closed. She did not appear to be breathing. Her hair was so light, it almost looked like silver.

Bran and Rickon followed Jon and notice what their older brother saw.

"Is that-?"

"Can it be?"

"It's Daenerys Targaryen."


End file.
